American Horror Story - Season 1-75 - Murder House: Armageddon
by leaftheweed
Summary: It's the beginning of the end at Murder House. As Michael grows, so do his powers. He's attracted a cult following but as he rises, the world declines. Strange creatures stalk the foggy streets. Zombies and plagues, earthquakes and tsunamis... it's apocalypse now. What will happen to the ghosts of Montgomery Mansion in this new world of horror? Will it be more than they can handle?
1. Chapter 1 - Halloween Weirdness

_"This is the way the world ends: Not with a bang, but a whimper." — T.S. Eliot_

 **2021 - Halloween**

A preternatural fog choked the streets of Los Angeles, muffling sound and making it seem very otherworldly. Father Jeremiah escorted the two boys on their trick-or-treat mission but it was a frustrating experience. It was difficult to see in the fog. They couldn't tell which houses had porch lights on from the sidewalk. They had to walk almost all the way to the front porches and every house they'd visited was dark. Many seemed empty.

Father Jeremiah had suggested they walk for a bit before trying another house; try to get clear of the fog. The strange, perpetual mist had settled early last year and slowly spread over a large portion of the suburbs south of Hollywood. It didn't cover everything, though; it thinned more the further away from Murder House one traveled.

So they walked through the cold fog. Tate, masquerading as child Ethan dressed up as Anakin Skywalker, didn't mind the walk. They had started their candy haul at home, with Constance's fun size Reese's cups and Chad's individually wrapped bonbons from the fancy candy company downtown. That was enough for him to feel successful so far.

Michael, almost ten, was dressed as a scarecrow. It was an outfit he wasn't too keen on until he took a Sharpie from Ethan's room and drew the mask a scary new face. Mama Constance had scolded him but, in the end, he got to wear it. Father Jeremiah wasn't dressed up as anything other than himself that year.

They were nearly to the intersection where the stop sign was shrouded in the wall of mist but they could hear no traffic. Now and then a dog barked. Somewhere overhead, a plane flew by, but they couldn't see it.

Michael found the stop sign first and hooked a hand on the pole supporting it. "I don't think anybody's home," he said of the world in general as he spun himself around the pole, using it as a pivot.

"I think if we cross this street..." Father Jeremiah started. But he trailed off, cocking his head.

Tate was already starting off in the direction indicated but the priest grabbed his shoulder. "Wait. Listen."

They all stood very still, listening. And then they heard it, faint at first but growing unmistakably louder: A wet, squelching noise. A sloppy, flopping sound that brought no associated picture to mind for any of them. When he could get a fix on the direction the sound was coming from, Father Jeremiah gathered the kids behind him protectively.

Neither boy wanted to be sheltered, though, and peeked out from behind him curiously. What they saw come up out of the fog was quite a sight to behold. It put Tate instantly in mind of the centipede-woman Dr. Charles Montgomery made in the basement.

It was fleshy and not at all the right shape for a human or an animal, though of the two it resembled a person more in form. It was reddish pink and glistening wetly in the fog-smothered light from the nearby streetlamp. The humanoid thing was low to the ground, pulling itself along with fleshy protrusions that grew and shrank like snail's eye stalks. Each time it dragged itself a little closer to them, it made that slippery sucking sound.

What made the creeping mass truly horrifying was the fact that it had no discernible head. It was a blind, adult-sized lump of viscera with tubeworm like appendages in place of limbs—and it was heading right toward them at an alarming pace. The thing obviously knew where they were, despite having no apparent sensory organs apart from the gross skin covering it.

Tate was fascinated. "What is it?"

Father Jeremiah put his arms out because he could sense both boys trying to come out in the open. Until he knew what the thing's range was with those tubular tentacles, he didn't want either of them making himself an easy target.

"I don't know," he answered in a low voice. "Nothing natural."

Staring intently at the thing, Michael ducked under the priest's arm. Jeremiah tried to catch him but the boy was too quick. The young scarecrow stepped right into the path of the sickening mass and cocked his head, listening to something only he and it could hear.

It was a language similar to what he shared with Thaddeus that didn't require lips or throats or any human parts. The creature stopped where it was and for a moment, nothing happened.

"Michael—" Father Jeremiah started.

Suddenly the fleshy monster reared up to man height on its nubby hind stubs, exposing a pasty underbelly with a giant gaping slit for a mouth running nearly the full length of its underside. It looked like some bizarre type of ray, only when it opened its mouth, it showed shark-like teeth.

"Michael!" Jeremiah and Tate both shouted.

Michael didn't hear them. He was focused on the creature. To him, it was the angry goose situation all over again. He'd tried to be polite and the thing was being a jerk. It didn't have a neck like a goose though so he had to search for its weak spot. It didn't have a physical one that he could see but he could sense its brain-heart deep inside and that's what he grabbed.

To his companions, the boy seemed to reach out and squeeze the air. Then he twisted and yanked hard. Even though he didn't touch it, the creature stiffened and gave a horrid screech. Dark red blood gushed from the sinister mouth and it barfed up its own innards, splashing the nearby trio in gore. It fell over, twitched twice, then was still.

Michael's temper cooled as quickly as it flared and he realized he'd done that right in front of Father Jeremiah. There would be no hiding that, like he had the goose.

The priest blinked and wiped monster blood from his cheek with the back of his coat sleeve, stunned by the encounter. He had been trained to expect miracles as the child grew, but experiencing it was a lot different than it had been on paper.

"Holy shit!" Tate said with an awed grin, forgetting his little boy act in the moment. "You looked just like Darth Vader!"

Michael looked at him then at Father Jeremiah. It didn't seem like he was in trouble so he relaxed a little. Then he realized what Ethan had just said. He smiled a little but he felt funny inside.

"It was going to bite me," he said.

"Right," said Jeremiah, finally finding his voice. "We need to go home."

"What about trick-or-treat?" Tate objected in dismay.

Father Jeremiah shifted his attention to the other boy. "I don't think it's a good night for it."

Michael was torn. He still wanted to collect candy but he felt funny inside. He didn't like the fact that Ethan and Father Jeremiah saw him squish the monster. He didn't feel badly about doing it. He just didn't like the fact that they saw him do it.

"Come on," the priest said and reached for Michael's hand. "Let's go home."

The boy yanked his hand away. He looked up at his guardian unhappily then he turned and bolted into the fog.

"Michael!" Father Jeremiah hollered after him.

There was no answer.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

Father Jeremiah was torn. He needed to go after Michael but he didn't want to bring Ethan along. Unaware of the boy's true nature, he was concerned for his safety. Obviously something very strange was happening but taking him home would lose precious time.

"Let's go get him," Tate said.

That seemed to gel the man's indecision. "No. I need to take you home first. It's too dangerous."

Tate frowned, looking even more the part of his costume. "That'll take too much time. I'll be okay."

"I don't have time to argue!" Father Jeremiah snapped. He grabbed the boy's hand, fully intending to pull him along if he wouldn't go willingly.

Tate dug in his heels but his child form was no match for the priest, who was a lot stronger than a person should be. "Just— Would you just stop?" the boy grunted, trying to pull free. He didn't want to let go of his candy sack, which handicapped him further. "Just listen to me!"

His temper got the better of him: Tate ditched the kid guise entirely and assumed his normal form.

Having the young Anakin suddenly turn hostile teen on him was a surprise that stopped Father Jeremiah. He stared at Tate. "...you."

Tate made a sour smile. "Yeah. Me. Look. We don't have time for explanations or freaking out right now. Yell at me later or whatever but right now? We've got to find Michael. You don't need to worry about me. Okay?"

Strange sounds were growing louder, coming closer. "Okay," the man agreed a bit numbly. "Come on."

Together they headed off in the direction Michael went.

—

Michael ran quite a distance: He ran until the fog thinned and he could see signs of life—human life. A city bus was at the stop and he hurried over to it. He used the bus card he usually used when Mama Constance took them to the cemetery Halloween mornings. In fifteen minutes, he was on Sunset Boulevard.

The strip was alive with Halloween: Garish decorations adorned the squat shops and bars. Blinking lights in Halloween colors brought attention to palm readers and adult stores. The Stock Room was particularly festive, with a whole rack of themed rubber suits rolled out in front and marked down from shockingly expensive to something more approachable. All along the sidewalks, people in costume migrated from place to place, laughing and shouting and having the adult equivalent of a good time. Music blared from all directions.

Outside one bar, a man stood on the concrete base of a light pole, waving a poster board sign he'd written on with several colors of marker. He wasn't wearing a costume. He was just shouting about how God hated gay people and God hated illegal immigrants and God hated unwed mothers and God hated everyone, it seemed, according to the nappy-haired man.

Michael drifted closer, enthralled by his wild-eyed vitriol. The man kept spewing hatred in God's name, which the boy found both bizarre and fascinating. Eventually the street preacher noticed his young audience and jabbed a finger in his direction.

"Suffer the children to come unto me!" the man hollered. "Don't you see? Your wickedness and depravity is laid bare for all to see, corrupting the innocent youth! You are raping our future!"

The costumed crowd migrated around him, tuning him out. One Korean tourist took a quick selfie with him as the background.

Michael pushed his straw hat back so he could see the Bible thumper better. "God is love," he said. "Doesn't the Bible say that?"

The scruffy-haired man lowered his poster and squinted at the boy. "God loves the _faithful_. He doesn't love sinners! He _hates_ the wicked!"

Michael scrunched his nose. He had no love for scripture; Father Jeremiah had made him spend half his short life cramming the holy texts of multiple religions into his head. It was the inaccuracy that bothered him. If the man was going to scream at people on the street about God, he should at least get it right.

"There are only six things God hates," Michael stated emphatically. He lifted his gloved hands to count them off. "Haughty eyes, a lying tongue, shedding innocent blood, a heart that devises evil schemes, feet that rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies... And those who stir up conflict in the community. You know. People like you."

A small crowd was beginning to form as people were taking notice of the crazy man getting calmly dressed down by a child. Some started recording with their smart phones. One guy even narrated a live stream for his mobile buddies.

The street preacher, incensed by the insult and the fact that the child was stealing his thunder in front of so many, shouted: "I will punish the world for its evil, the wicked for their sins. I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty and will humble the pride of the ruthless!"

"Judge not lest ye be judged," Michael volleyed back, starting to enjoy himself. He rarely won an argument against an adult and never with people watching. "There is only one lawgiver and judge: He who is able to save and to destroy. Who are you to judge your neighbor?"

The man looked flustered and angry. But he also could see how many cameras were aimed at him and finally decided to beat a retreat. Taking his poster with him, he hopped down off the light pole. Seeing the show was over, the crowd began to disperse.

The crazy man wasn't quite done yet, though, pausing to prophesy: "The Lord is coming and all will be judged."

Michael smiled darkly at the challenge. "Tell your Lord I'm waiting."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I was trying to wait till I'd finished my Asylum fic to publish this one but I just couldn't hold the story back any longer. It wants to be shared! So here it is. Thanks so much to everyone who's written reviews and messages asking for another fanfic Season. It's nice to know I'm not alone in wanting to know what happens next.

For the record: This fic will not follow events of Apocalypse, which I haven't watched. I did watch the Murder House episode after it was called to my attention by a couple of folks who noticed fun similarities to my fan series. I enjoyed the episode but it has no bearing on this story, which has its own twisted plan in mind.

Next chapter: Halloween shenanigans continue. It's almost Halloween RL so t'is the season.


	2. Chapter 2 - Consequences

There was a lot to discover wandering the L.A. strip. Michael found an old-fashioned ice cream shop where he turned on some tears for the counter lady, so she would call Mama Constance to come get her lost trick-or-treater. The lady gave him a big scoop of ice cream to eat while he waited, and even put whipped cream and a cherry on it.

His grandmother was anxious when she got there but, when she saw no one was injured, she could breathe a little easier. "What're you doin' all the way up here?" she asked, smoothing her upswept hair. Then she crouched beside his chair so she could get a better look at him.

Michael kept shoveling Rocky Road into his mouth while she took off his scarecrow hat and petted his blond hair back. She sounded concerned but he could hear the angry edge to her tone. That meant he needed to eat as much ice cream as he could before she took it from him.

"I got lost," he said around the treat.

"Lost?" Constance echoed. She assessed the boy's behavior. He didn't seem terribly traumatized for a lost child. "Where are Father Jeremiah and Ethan?"

Michael shrugged and scooped more ice cream into his mouth. He was starting to get an ice cream headache but he ignored it.

Constance clamped down on the feeling of dread that instantly rose up. Michael couldn't have done anything to Tate but she wasn't so sure about the fate of the priest. "Well," she said, forcing a smile as she straightened. "I think we should head home and see if they turned up there. They're gonna be worried." She reached for her purse and turned to the clerk. "How much do I owe you for the ice cream?"

The woman smiled big and waved her off. "It's on the house."

Constance tipped her head, caught between gratitude and insisting on paying her way. But her thoughts were clouded by knowing just how near to death the poor cashier had been without even knowing.

"Thanks," the blonde woman said in a dazed way that confused the clerk. Then Constance turned to her grandson. "It's time to go."

Michael scooped faster, getting ice cream on his face. "Almost done."

"Now," Constance insisted and reached for his arm.

The boy whined when she tugged him out of the chair. He tried to grab one more spoonful but she snatched the spoon out of his hand. She tossed it back into the cup on the table and, sending the clerk a tired smile, hurried the fussing scarecrow out onto the sidewalk.

"Happy Halloween!" the clerk called after them.

—

Fortunately, Constance was able to reach Father Jeremiah on his cell phone. When she found out what happened, she yelled at him through the phone the whole way home. Michael had to sit there listening to her shriek like a magpie about risks and carelessness—and she wasn't even yelling at him. She drove badly too, making it a hair-raising trip home despite encountering no one else on the residential roads.

When they got home, Father Jeremiah was already there and looking strained. Mama Constance sent Michael to his room so she could yell at the priest some more. She was so upset, she didn't even notice the boy took his candy bag with him.

He dumped the small haul on his bed and looked at it. It was a sad showing: Barely two handfuls. He discovered it wasn't any fun sorting it without Ethan. It was just boring old candy. The nine year old was too full of ice cream to even think about eating any of the loot. In general, the whole thing was very disappointing.

Michael heard something glass break downstairs. He kicked off his shoes and curled up among the pillows near the head of his bed. He didn't like it when Mama Constance got mad like that, even if it wasn't aimed at him. The noises bothered him. She was like a stranger when she was that angry. Unpredictable. He couldn't remember her ever getting that mad at Father Jeremiah before, either, which bothered him more.

He put his fingers in his ears to block out the sound. That helped, some.

—

Father Jeremiah let Constance rant at him for a while. He knew he deserved that for letting his ward get away from him under such dangerous circumstances. The blonde woman's tirade ranged all over the map, from irresponsibility to the dangers Michael presented the world and vice versa. It was degrading but he was willing to put up with it, right up to the point where she threw a glass at him.

She'd finished the vodka in it and, in a surge of fury, lobbed it at him. She was drunk enough by that point that she missed him but the attempt alone flipped a switch in him. In two steps he was across the kitchen, right up in her personal space. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her arm back behind her hip. She looked up at him, dark eyes angry and a bit uncertain. He hadn't laid hands on her like that before. She could feel the physical and spiritual strength pulsing off him like heat from a generator.

"You need to stop," he said in a quiet, very calm voice. His grip on her wrist was iron.

Her lips trembled. No man told her what to do! But trying to twist free from his hold didn't work. "Let go of me," she said, voice quivering with rage and the tears she was holding back.

In response, he took hold of her other wrist. She didn't fight him as he drew that arm behind her back as well. It left him almost embracing her but the restraining hold wasn't a hug. It was a contest of wills.

"I don't like it when you get violent," said Jeremiah in that same calm voice.

It was hard to hold onto her anger when he was being like that. She suspected he was doing something to her but she couldn't call him out on it without knowing what to accuse him of. "You're such a damned pacifist," she spat, but the edge was gone from her tone. "I thought Satanists were supposed to be all about violence."

"And how many have you known?" The priest's expression remained unchanged but there was a hint of a smile in his words now.

Her jaw set but it was mostly an act now. "Just one. And he was a pain in the ass."

Jeremiah allowed the smile to surface and reeled her in closer, into an actual embrace, and released her hands. "Didn't you say it's better to feel pain than nothing at all?"

"Yes," she said, brows arching. "But that wasn't carte blanche for you to go telling me how to live."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said. "I'm content with telling you how to conduct your afterlife."

She smacked his chest but there was no strength to the gesture. "Pain in the ass."

He stole a kiss then let her go. "I need to speak with Michael."

Constance nodded and busied herself with cleaning up the kitchen. She wouldn't interfere. He was far better equipped to deal with her grandson than she was, where it came to situations like this.

—

Michael was in bed when Father Jeremiah came into his room. The boy had changed into his pajamas already and didn't make eye contact.

"You already know what you did was dangerous and foolish," the priest said as pushed the door shut behind himself. "Do you want to tell me why?"

Michael's mouth scrunched in a lemony way and he plucked at the fuzz on the blanket. "I thought you'd be mad because I killed the worm-man."

Jeremiah came over to the bedside. "It surprised me," he said. "But I'm pretty sure the.. worm-man was going to hurt you."

Michael looked up, brow crinkling curiously. "It's okay to kill something if it's going to hurt me?"

"In general," the priest said. "Yes. There are exceptions."

"Mama Constance?"

She wasn't one Father Jeremiah had been thinking about but... "She's an exception. The same goes with all of your family. You should never, ever hurt your family."

"Even if they're hurting you?"

Jeremiah cleared his throat. The rash of tough questions wasn't anything they'd covered in his training. "Not even then," he said. He hoped he wouldn't regret saying that, later.

"What was the worm-man?" Michael asked.

Another question the man didn't have a ready answer for. "I don't know," he admitted. "I suspect we'll be seeing a lot of new things in the future. Things we'll have to learn about. But you can't go running off like that again for that reason. We don't know what's out there or what it can do. I'm sure you can handle yourself against another one of those things, but what if he has a bunch of friends?"

Michael couldn't imagine a worm-man having friends but then he considered himself a pretty fun person and the few friends he had were all dead, with the exception of the priest. Maybe worm-men had worm-man-friends. He tried to picture a worm-man gathering but it was too weird.

"It's not safe," reiterated the priest. "You should have headed home, not up to the strip."

The guilty look crept back over the boy's round face. "I got lost."

Jeremiah wasn't buying it. "You found your way to the ice cream shop just fine."

Michael had no defense for that so he just smiled sweetly. That didn't work on the priest nearly as well as it typically did on Constance.

"Tomorrow, penance," Father Jeremiah said. His no-nonsense tone said he was serious. "You'll do the entire Litany of Abbadon—" Michael was already groaning, so he raised his voice to be heard. "And you'll use both buckets."

The buckets each held a gallon of liquid easily. Jeremiah had filled them with sand. The punishment was grueling enough if the boy had to hold one while he recited the lengthy scripture of Abbadon. Two buckets would be torture. Which was entirely the point.

The activity wasn't entirely punitive: It reinforced important information Michael would need to understand later and it also reinforced the social contract between mentor and pupil. There would come a time when Michael would understand how powerful he really was. Jeremiah had to do what he could in the meantime to steer that power in the direction it needed to go, before the boy figured out he didn't have to listen to anyone.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Happy post-Halloween! I love writing this stuff around this time of year. There's no shortage of inspiration. I watched _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ for the first time in yeeears. I am definitely tapping that vibe somehow.


	3. Chapter 3 - Death and the Warwicks

The next afternoon, Father Jeremiah paid the mansion next door a visit. Tate answered when the gloomy doorbell rang. He presented an awkward demeanor. He was in his normal form, wearing a long-sleeved striped jersey and a pair of baggy pants that almost swallowed his old Chucks.

"Hey," he said, feeling weird inside seeing the guy and knowing the little boy ruse was up.

"May I come in?" the man said politely.

Tate hesitated then stepped back out of the way. Once Jeremiah was inside, the teen shut the door. Then he led the way into the great room. It looked the way Chad liked it best, even though Tate preferred it the way he remembered it. He didn't feel like asserting himself to change it, though, so he led the priest over to the collection of hard sofas and chairs and flopped on the longest couch. He barely bounced.

"Sooo," he opened. "You probably want to yell at me, huh?"

Jeremiah took a seat in the chair nearest the teenager and looked at him closely. Trying to see Ethan in the older boy's features. "I try not to yell unless I need to be heard," he said. "I do want to speak with you, though, and I would appreciate honest answers."

Tate's gaze scurried away then came back to the guest. "Yeah. Okay."

"Who are you? What is your name? Are you a child or a teenager?" Father Jeremiah had more questions but stopped at that for the time being.

"My name's Tate Langdon," he answered. He fidgeted with his ring, turning it around and around. "My mother is Constance. You know her. I died in this house when I was seventeen. I started pretending to be a kid when Michael and I met through the fence because I wanted to be friends with him. I figured he wouldn't want to be friends with a big kid so I stopped being big." He lowered his chin and looked morose. "Are you mad at me?"

"No but—" The priest frowned thoughtfully. "Why pretend to be someone else?"

Tate shrugged. "Why not? I couldn't be me anyway. Constance didn't want him to know who his real dad was."

Father Jeremiah's eyes widened for an instant as he digested that tidbit. "Oh."

Tate's smile got crooked at that. "Yeah. I'm his dad. I guess. Sperm donor?" He shrugged again and drew his knees up to his chest, getting his dirty sneakers on Chad's couch with a detached sense of satisfaction. "She's right, you know. I'm no dad. Mine ran off when I was a kid. What would I know about being a father?" He tipped his head, not blinking. "You do a pretty good job, though. Maybe if my mother brought a priest home when I was little, instead of all those college guys, I would've turned out different."

Jeremiah's brows went up and he coughed softly. "She didn't 'bring me home'. I was sent here by my Order to ensure that Michael fulfills the prophecy concerning his birth." He studied the teen across from him, taking in the fortress of knees. "Forgive me but... were you a spirit at the time you—"

"Got it on?" Tate prompted. A cheeky grin dimpled his cheeks. "Put a bun in the oven? Yeah." He looked proud of himself, even though the act had been disturbing for him at the time. He wasn't going to dwell on reality while he was trying to rattle Father Jeremiah. The guy was fun to shake up.

"Interesting," said the priest, deliberately ignoring the crude way the boy spoke. He could tell he was being baited. "I didn't know that was possible."

"Nobody did," Tate agreed. "But I guess it is." He uncurled and grabbed one of the throw pillows to hug to his chest. "I don't know though. I've had sex with Violet a lot and she's never gotten pregnant. But she's also dead, like me."

Father Jeremiah nodded slowly at the rapid-fire over-sharing. Not the information he was hoping for. "So what is your relationship with Chad and Patrick then? If they're not your parents?"

Tate looked down at his hands and tugged his sleeves down over his fingers. "They used to live here but they died." He rolled his eyes to the side, then amended: "I killed them. Not because I didn't like them. I totally liked them. I still do. I mean, Chad can be a real dick-hole about some things and so can Pat, but at least they don't hate me anymore."

"You liked them but you killed them anyway?" Jeremiah found that logic hard to follow.

When he heard how strange that sounded, Tate made a face. "I told you: It's a long story. Basically they were going to leave without giving Mrs. Montgomery a baby and I couldn't let them do that." That didn't sound any better so he added: "Nora's baby was killed back when she and her husband, Charles, lived here. She's been sad about it ever since. She used to keep me safe from the bad things in this place when I was little. She saved my life _lots_. So... I told her I'd help her get a baby."

That was quite a story to take in and Father Jeremiah didn't rush the process. He was already familiar with a good deal of history surrounding the mansion but assimilating the inside details brought a whole new clarity to the picture.

"Michael's not their son though," he noted.

Tate shook his head. "The next owners after them... Vivien Harmon. She's his mother."

Jeremiah was still puzzled. Something wasn't quite adding up for him in the explanation. "Why kill the Warwicks, then?"

Tate looked at him silently. It was such a direct question, he had to consider it. "They were going to leave."

The priest's brows steepled. "Wouldn't the outcome have been the same if they'd lived?"

The teen shook his head, slowly because he was sorting through it himself. He'd never thought the matter through. "Who knows how long it would've taken the house to sell? Maybe never. Mrs. Nora needed a baby and they weren't going to have one."

"I suppose you have a point," the man acknowledged. He couldn't pick at the situation too much since it led to Michael's prophesied birth. Whatever it took to get that done, he supported.

"Are you going to tell Michael?"

Jeremiah pressed his lips together briefly, thinking. "No. If you want him to know who you are, that's your business. I don't see that his knowing will help him in any way at this point. If that changes, I'll let you know."

Tate relaxed and smiled. "Cool. You know, when I first met you, I didn't like you. But you're pretty cool."

"Er. Thanks?" The priest rose. "Thank you for speaking with me, Tate. I'll see you again soon, I'm sure."

The teen stayed planted on the couch while the man saw himself out. Once he was gone, Tate reached for his hair. Tugging the short, uneven locks around his fingers made the anxious feeling inside him calm down some. He hoped Father Jeremiah wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't tell.

—

Tate didn't know it but Chad had been listening in on the whole conversation. The dark-haired man routinely eavesdropped on anyone he could, but that chat had been particularly alluring given its nature. He'd long wondered why Tate had killed him and had never found a way to broach the subject that wouldn't shut it down before the conversation even started.

Tate had told the anti-priest the reason he'd killed the Warwicks was because they were going to leave but the very next thing he told the man was that he needed to get rid of them to make way for a new family that would have a baby. Those were two incompatible reasons. He and Patrick were going to leave, which would have opened the house up. A new buyer wouldn't have surfaced any sooner just because they were dead.

Chad headed to the kitchen, wanting a drink to help him mull through the quandary. He poured himself a glass of red wine even though it was only 1 o'clock. He tended to reserve the red for dinner but threw reservation to the wind. One he had a nice big glass he propped himself against center island. Taking a steeling breath, he let in the last living memories he could find.

Gala apples. Apples were always his weakness, especially now. They had to be the right shade, the right shape, the right smell. He hated the wax the commercial grocers coated them in. It might preserve the fruit but it made it look like plastic and it absolutely killed the smell.

He and Patrick had been fighting about the apples, he seemed to remember. The memory was watery and distorted, like seeing and hearing through rippled glass. Did he send Patrick to get new ones? Or was that Ben? Why were the memories running together? Just how many times over the years had he sent either of them to the market for apples? For an instant he was horrified with his own penchant for repetition then let it go. He had more important things to stew over.

The fight had been a particularly nasty one. Chad had called him out on screwing around with the guy at the gym and he'd left. Like he always did in those end days. Chad put away a glass of wine and was surprised when Pat returned. He was wearing that stupid gimp suit the Stock Room clerk had talked Chad into buying in a desperate attempt to win Patrick's affections back. No returns. Ridiculously expensive source of regret.

Patrick had put it on to mock him but it had actually looked rather sexy on him, which caught Chad off guard, as he didn't find any of that "scene" stuff the least bit appealing. At that moment, though, there had been something darkly magnetic in the predatory way he moved.

Only it wasn't Pat under the hood.

Chad downed a large gulp from his glass and winced as it went down hard. The thought of finding Tate the least bit sexy, even accidentally, disgusted him. It was like being kissed awake by a lover only to discover it was the family dog licking him.

He vaguely remembered trying to apologize to the person he thought was Patrick, then things got muddy. There was some kind of scuffle. Apples. There were apples floating all around, red and green.

He shook his head and refilled his glass, which was nearly empty by that point. The next clear memory he had was of being in the basement, unable to breathe, and seeing Tate standing over him. He was still wearing the rubber suit but he had the hood off. He was talking to the old maid they'd hired to do light cleaning; she had in her hand the gun Chad had bought for safety. She gave it to Tate and told him to shoot the men.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Tate shot Patrick without hesitation. The sound of the gun was so loud, it made Chad's ears ring. He still couldn't breathe; he felt like he was drowning.

The glass trembled in Chad's hand as his lungs began to cramp. He really did feel like he was drowning! He gave a harsh cough and spat up some water. He slammed the glass down, sloshing wine on the surface of the island as he reached for the counter to steady himself. The feeling began to ease and he started to breathe more freely.

He kept forcing the memory even though his heart was still racing. Tate had shot Patrick, but it seemed like the man was already dead. His eyes were open and he wasn't moving; he didn't react when he was shot in the chest. Chad remembered reaching for him, almost touching Pat's limp hand. He remembered hearing another loud bang.

 _Now they'll be together forever._

The last words Chad heard Tate speak before the darkness closed in.

He coughed again, this time hacking up blood. He darted to the sink and spat out a mouthful, quickly running some water to rinse the coppery taste away. His chest felt tight again but he was too stubborn to let the pain come back more than that now that he understood what was happening. He was annoyed the stigmata had the nerve to bother him at all, after so many years of repressing it. He coughed up some bloody phlegm and rinsed that away as well. After drying his hands and face he moved back to the island, feeling shaky.

He was determined to see this through but he needed to steady himself with more wine. He wiped up the spill and then refilled his glass, draining nearly half of it immediately.

The next clear thing he could remember was him hiding out in the basement, watching the police take his and Patrick's bodies away. That was such a bizarre moment: Watching his own lifeless corpse get zipped up in the body bag. Listening to the EMTs speculating on the fight they must have had that resulted in Chad shoving a poker up Patrick's ass before shooting them both.

It was humiliating. Chad would never do something like that with a poker, even if it was poetic justice. Tate had told him once that he'd done that because he was mad at Patrick for messing everything up by cheating. Chad had accepted the explanation but hadn't thought more about it at the time.

Tate's last words teased his thoughts. Had he actually said that or was that something Chad's dying brain had cooked up? The boy had claimed he didn't know they would be trapped but, on reflection, that story didn't add up either. Why would he kill them because he was upset that Patrick was cheating? It would make sense if he'd only killed Pat but why both of them? He had told Father Jeremiah that he just wanted to clear the way for a new family to move in. If getting them out of the house was the goal, why not let them just leave alive? At the rate they'd been going, Patrick would have probably left soon anyway, even without his share of the money from the house.

Only one person could answer the questions Chad had... and it was time to ask him.

—

Tate was still in the great room when the Chad went to find him. The teen shrank down to child form and took his feet off the couch when the other ghost came in but there were scuffs all over the cushions. He tried to cover them by shifting the way he was sitting.

It took some effort to ignore the marks but the dark-haired man forced himself to focus. "We need to talk."

Tate's eyes rounded and he reached for his hair. "I'm fixing it!"

Chad rolled his eyes and sat down in the same chair the priest had occupied earlier. "I'm not talking about your hair. But do fix it. What I want to talk to you about is why you killed me."

"You heard us?" he didn't bother expanding on that because either Chad would understand or he wouldn't.

He did understand, being rather fluent in Tate-speak by then. "Yes. And I'm tired of the bullshit. You've told at least three different versions of that story to as many people." He leaned forward a little and fixed the boy with his stoniest stare. "I want to know why you killed me. No bullshit answers. No games." He sat back and waited expectantly.

Tate really didn't like being kid size just then. It made being on the spot feel that much worse. He didn't dare age up though. Chad was being far too serious. He swung his feet and tried to sort out how to talk to the man without saying the wrong thing. It was hard.

"You were going to leave," he said finally. He bit his lip afterward, hard enough to hurt. That felt better than the weird squirrely feeling he had inside. It made his armpits sweat. Which was stupid because he didn't need sweat anymore. He was evolved.

"You told me you didn't know we'd be stuck here."

Tate fidgeted and tugged at his hair a little before catching himself. "I didn't."

Chad frowned and sighed hard through his nose. "Bull. Shit."

Tate frowned too. "Okay. Fine! I did know."

Chad almost felt vindicated but confusion took over. Irritation quickly followed. "Just tell me _why_."

"I already said!" Tate snapped, feeling badgered. "You were going to leave!"

"You wanted us out!" Chad exclaimed.

Tate flinched and sulked. " _I_ didn't," he mumbled.

And there it was. Chad sat there for a moment, breathing hard and staring at the kid in the rumpled too-big clothing.

"Why?" he asked when he could find his voice.

Tate peeked glumly at him through his messy bangs and brought his knees up again. "I don't know! I guess because I liked you and I didn't want you to leave. The house or each other."

Chad kept staring at him for a few more moments, then fell back into the chair, emotionally and physically exhausted from everything he'd been through over the last hour. "You liked us," he repeated wearily. He needed more wine. Possibly something stiffer. "Both of us?"

"Yeah. I never met anybody like you guys before," Tate said around the cuticle he was chewing on. He pulled the finger out of his mouth and smiled nostalgically. "I used lay on the shaving couch in your room and watch you guys sleep at night."

Chad pushed himself up a little and held up a finger. "One: Creepy as fuck." The other finger went up. "Two: Shaving couch?"

Tate was too used to Chad to be wounded by being called creepy over something that happened years ago. "Yeah. You know. Where you used to get dressed and Pat cut his toenails."

"God, you fucking pervert!" Chad accused, rolling his eyes. "Were you with us _all_ the time?"

"Pretty much," Tate admitted, having the decency to look chagrined, even if it was an act. "You were interesting! I wasn't the only one who watched you either."

Chad shook his head, not placated. "God-damned peeping Tom," he muttered. Then he pushed himself out of the chair. "It's a chaise lounge, you cretin. Not a shaving couch."

He left Tate and headed for the kitchen then, desperately in need of strong drink.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter got unexpectedly super long because Chad butted in. He was not scheduled to but he demanded screen time since people were talking about him. I thought what he had to say was relevant so I left it in. Chopping it up into another chapter wouldn't have read real smooth so... uber chapter.

With my Asylum fic I've tried to keep a consistent word count but that hasn't worked out as well as I wanted. With this one, I don't think I'm going to bother. There are too many pushy characters in this story who want face time.

Next time we're jumping ahead a couple of years to another Halloween. That holiday never gets easier in Murder House...


	4. Chapter 4 - Mommy Issues

Patrick found Chad later in the downstairs bathroom, viciously digging out the grout that lined the back of the sink. He was going to ask about dinner as it was getting dark. Usually Chad had started something by then. Not that any of the ghosts needed to eat, but the evening meal was a routine the Warwicks and Tate had been practicing for years. Each had their personal reasons for wanting to keep doing it. If nothing else, it was a way to pass time and something to do.

The jock forestalled asking about dinner, though, when he took in how riled up the other man was. While Chad often got upset over the various things that kept breaking around the house, he wasn't typically quite so aggressive. Pat thought about asking him what was wrong but he opted for the shorter conversation.

"What did he do this time?"

Chad didn't like being so easy to read but he wanted to complain, so he didn't waste time pretending like Patrick was barking up the wrong tree. "Do you know what that little psycho told me? He said he killed us because he _liked_ us!"

"Wait," Pat said. "He what?"

"He said he killed us because liked us," Chad repeated and gave the grout another vicious poke. Then he got a reflective look. "Well, he was also mad at you for cheating."

Patrick frowned at the editorial. "He said that?"

"Mm-hmm," responded Chad and went back to attacking the grout. "That's why _you_ got the chimney sweep treatment and I just got a bullet to the heart. But he _killed_ us because he didn't want us to leave—the house or each other."

The bigger man folded his arms. "He told me he didn't know we'd get stuck here."

"Me too!" Chad fumed and tossed the screwdriver aside that he'd been mutilating the grout with. The powdered white stuff was all over his shirt now and wouldn't brush off. He glowered up at Patrick. "At first. Then I overheard him today telling your Satanist boyfriend about how he killed us, and that little shit said he didn't want us to leave."

Pat's jaw set when Chad referenced Father Jeremiah in such a way. He had to bite back on the urge to argue about his relationship with the priest, which was virtually nil. It wasn't worth getting distracted over. "Tate says a lot of shit. I wouldn't put faith in anything he said."

Chad harumphed. "You weren't there when I gave him the third degree! I believe him." He dusted his hands off, expression sour. "That little maniac ruined our lives because we were going to cancel his favorite reruns of the Chad and Patrick Show. Do you know he used to watch us? All. The. _Time_."

The matter did bother Patrick but not the same way Chad was letting it get to him. He pulled a little shrug. "You spy on people all the time too. What else is there to do aside from fix things?" He nodded to the mess Chad had created on the counter. "What are you even doing?"

Chad looked down at the mess too. "The grout was cracked. It needs replacing."

"It definitely does now." Pat shifted his attention away from the bathroom's sore spot and looked at the shorter man. "Are you going to make dinner?"

"I suppose," Chad sighed. "I can finish this later. I'm not speaking to that little shit, though. You can tell him that."

Pat looked pained. "I am not going to play messenger for you. What are we, in high school?"

"Prom King and Queen," said Chad sarcastically. "With our own personal school shooter." He paused, suddenly struck by his own words. "Huh. He shot us, just like he did the kids at Westfield."

Patrick lost some of his agitation and looked at the other man quizzically.

Chad saw the look and shook his head. "I just... Well. You know, he's technically the same age as us. If life had been any different, we both could have been at Westfield that day." He got a funny look then. "We got to live a few years longer than those kids, but the end was the same. Just... hit me as weird." He gave his arms a rub to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"You saying it was our destiny to be shot by Tate?" Pat huffed a laugh that fell short on humor. There were strange forces at play in Murder House. Anything was possible.

"I don't believe in destiny," said Chad flatly. "If there was such thing as destiny, mine would _not_ be found in a house I can never fix or clean properly."

...

 **2023**

"I don't want to trick-or-treat this year," Michael insisted.

It wasn't what Tate, still posing as a child, wanted to hear. The other boy was taller than him now, being nearly eleven. It had occurred to Tate to age over time, but after outing himself to Michael's guardian, he realized he couldn't grow without eventually outing himself to Michael as well when he caught up to his teen years. It was a wrinkle he hadn't considered when he first started interacting with the other boy. But none of the other child ghosts in the house aged, so it seemed normal to Michael that Ethan wouldn't either.

At the moment they were in Ethan's bedroom, on the rug near the book shelf. Michael was trying to assemble an ancient car racing set. It was a strange thing that belonged to Hugo Langdon and only shared with his son a couple of times in life. Tate didn't remember how it worked but he remembered crashing the cars a few times. He'd brought it down to entice the other boy into playing with him while they discussed Halloween plans.

"Why not?" he pressed.

Michael shrugged. "I just don't feel like it. That's baby stuff. Besides, it's stupid to drive an hour just to find someplace to walk around and get candy. We can get candy from the store. Or from Amazon. They still ship here."

"It's not about the candy!" Tate objected. He picked up one of the cars and ran his finger over the wheels. "God. You're so stupid sometimes."

Michael was crouched down with his face close to the floor, eyeing the track to make sure it was connected flat. He sent the other boy a dirty look. "You're a real dick sometimes."

That made Tate's brows dance as he worked out how to react to that. He sort of thought it was funny, Michael swearing at him, but it also kind of made him mad. "You're the douche who doesn't want to go out on Halloween. It's Halloween!"

Michael knelt up and glared at him. He knew what a douche was. Mama Constance kept those under the sink and they had very vivid instructions with interesting pictures. "You're so gross," he accused. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Oh. That's right. You can't. You don't _have_ a mother."

Tate blinked at him, blindsided by the insult. Their spats in the past had been mostly physical or yelling nonsense. Being truly insulted by the other boy was new. He didn't like it at all. He _did_ have a mother. Just not one Michael knew about.

"Fuck you," he said and kicked the track Michael had been working on. "Neither do you!"

The pieces broke apart and scattered. Michael suffered a moment of indignant outrage and thought about stabbing Ethan with the nearby controller. It would serve him right, but Michael knew he'd just heal the damage and tattle. He knew a better way to punish the other boy. He got up and, kicking a piece of the track out of the way, he headed for the door.

Tate watched him go, torn. He didn't want Michael to leave but he also didn't want to say sorry. Because he wasn't sorry.

"You're ruining Halloween!" he yelled after him, in tears.

Impulsively, he threw the toy car at Michael as he left. It missed and it clattered across the wood floor in the hall. A few moments later, Tate heard his footsteps pounding down the stairs, then the front door slammed.

—

"What happened?" Patrick asked from the doorway.

He had heard the yelling and came to investigate. After so many years, he could read the boy's moods like litmus paper—from across the house, if the vibe was strong enough. The current vibe was seismic.

"Michael's being a dick," Tate said miserably. He scrubbed the tears from his cheeks with the back of his arm. "He's not going to go trick-or-treating this year."

Pat folded his arms and had to check his initial reaction. The situation didn't seem that dramatic to him but he didn't want to set off the volcano he could sense, so he proceeded carefully. "Why?"

Tate shrugged and started picking up the race car track. "Because he's a dick."

After a bit, the jock came over and crouched down to help him clean up. "He didn't say why?"

There was a noticeable hesitation before the boy responded. "He said it's baby stuff."

Suddenly everything made sense. "Ahh. Yeah, I guess he is getting a bit old for that. He's going to be a teen soon." He smiled and wound up the cord of one of the controllers. "My friends and I got the message we were too old when folks started handing us toothbrushes and dirty looks."

"I was going to be Quicksilver," Tate said morosely.

"You can still dress up," Pat pointed out. "But I think you and bodysuits should stay far apart."

"Not the Avengers version," Tate said, wrinkling his nose. He put the stacked pieces of track in the old box. "Doesn't matter. There's no point getting dressed up if there's no trick-or-treat."

Patrick put the controller away and started winding the other one up. "If you really want to get dressed up for Halloween, I'll take you someplace."

"Where?"

"It'll be a surprise," said Pat. He put the controller in the box.

Tate looked a little dubious but he shrugged and closed the lid on the car set. "Okay." He was already pretty sure he'd rather be trick-or-treating.

—

Constance was in the garden, tending to the abundance of flowers she had planted back there. She loved flowers. It was hard to have a negative thought when she was surrounded by such beauty. Unfortunately, her little escape was intruded on by Michael and the bad mood he brought with him.

"Who's my mother?" he demanded, without preamble.

Constance knelt back on her heels and peered up at him past the brim of her wide sunhat. "Now what makes you ask that all of a sudden?"

"I want to know," Michael said simply. His expression was stormy. "Who is she? Where is she? Why have I never met her?"

The woman was torn between feeding him the same lie she'd told others about a family friend and a fatal car crash but Michael was too clever for such nonsense. He would need to know sooner or later what his roots were. She sighed and tugged off her gardening gloves, then tossed them aside. She primly dusted her fingers off where they'd touched the dirty things then she got to her feet.

"Let's go inside," she suggested. "I think we need some lemonade for this conversation."

—

Michael's lemonade had ice, a sprig of mint, and a straw. Constance's had three shots of rum. She settled at the breakfast nook with him, keenly aware of the way he was staring at her. Sometimes, she felt, he was too smart for anyone's good.

"Your mother," she sighed. She lit a cigarette. "Your mother's next door."

Michael gave her a puzzled frown but he quickly figured out what she meant. "Which one is she?"

He gripped his glass with both hands, suddenly excited and nervous at once. He had thought about his mother before but the idea that she might have been right beside him this whole time was a dwarfing concept. It opened the floor for so many more questions, not the least of which was why she hadn't revealed herself to him.

"Her name is Vivien," Constance said, watching him closely. When nothing seemed to register, she added: "Vivien Harmon."

"Harmon?" Michael asked, even more confused. He knew Tate's doctor, Ben, and he had met Violet a couple of times but he had never heard of Vivien. "Is Doctor Harmon my dad?"

Constance laughed. "Oh, no. You've nothin' to do with him. No. Your mother," she said, artfully steering the conversation. "Was his wife in life. I don't know what they are to each other now, if anything." She dusted her hands off like she had in the garden, trying to brush away the memory of that tortured marriage. "Your mother got pregnant with you while she was livin' in that house. You were... A divine blessing. You see, your mother was already with child when you... made your way into this world."

Michael made a funny face. "She was already pregnant?"

Constance tapped her cigarette in the ashtray. "She was. Your birth, unfortunately, did them both in, I'm afraid." She crushed the cigarette butt out and sighed again, bracing herself.

The boy stewed on that information for a while. "Is that why you didn't tell me? You didn't want me to be sad because I killed them?"

"Oh, sweetheart!" Constance exclaimed and reached for his hand. "You didn't do that on purpose. Nobody thinks that."

He hadn't thought that before but now he couldn't help wondering if anyone did. "Does she?"

Constance hesitated. "Well. I'm... I'm not sure."

Michael sank in his seat, eyes on his lemonade glass. Beads of moisture were starting to form on the outside. "I want to see her."

"I have a friend... A medium," Constance said. "She might be able to help you reach her." They both knew ghosts could only be seen by those that wanted to be seen.

"Can you ask her?" Michael said, daring to hope.

If he knew his mother, maybe his world would make more sense.

...

 **A month later**

It had been years since Billie Dean was inside Murder House and yet everything was exactly the same. The way the furniture looked, the way the place smelled. It was frozen in time.

Constance accompanied her to the kitchen, alert for signs of her youngest. He wasn't fond of the medium and she didn't want him causing trouble. She lit a cigarette and exhaled a trail of smoke as she entered the prep area. Even at a glance she could tell Moira wasn't doing her job. The kitchen looked the way the gays favored it, which irritated the woman. She'd worked hard to restore the room when she'd lived there. Then they came along and crapped a contemporary veneer over everything. It was like looking at a masterpiece that was colored over by a child.

"Well," she said as she settled on a stool at the island. "Why don't you call her?"

Billie Dean leaned on the island corner near Constance and folded her hands. Her manicure matched the dark red dress she wore. "Mrs. Harmon?" she said, a tremble in her voice. Her emotions were running on high, fueled by the bizarre feeling of the neighborhood. It was like being in the spirit world. "Vivien?"

After a few moments the room brightened perceptibly, like the sun had magnified. Vivien appeared in the doorway to the dining room, dressed in a comfortable plush cream-colored track suit. Her hair was pulled back in a sporty ponytail.

"Can I help you?" she asked, looking from the medium to her neighbor and back again. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something about ringing the bell but Constance never bothered with such social norms when she was alive; she was even pushier dead.

Billie Dean smiled politely. "Hello. I don't know if you remember me but..."

"Yes. I remember you," Vivien nodded. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The woman cleared her throat and looked at her hands. She adjusted the sapphire ring she wore then she smiled at the ghost again. "Actually, yes. I, ah. I'm here because there's someone who would like to speak with you. Someone living."

Vivien's brows drew together and she came all the way into the kitchen. "Oh? Who?"

Billie Dean kept her fingers laced when her hands tried to fidget more. "Michael. Your son."

Vivien's lips thinned. "My son." She nodded but it was an idiosyncrasy that had nothing to do with her agreeing. She turned her attention to the woman with the blonde beehive hairdo. "You took him from this house while my husband's body was still warm and dangling from the rafters. Since then you've had him here several times and never once even bothered to introduce us. And now he's my son? Why? Because you can't lie to yourself about what he is anymore?"

Constance wet her cigarette under the faucet since there wasn't an ashtray available then she dropped the butt in the trash. "You could have introduced yourself to him at any time."

"He wants to talk to you," Billie Dean interjected, trying to forestall a fight.

Vivien folded her arms under her breasts. "I've learned a lot about him. That priest that lives with you. Father Jeremiah? He told me what Michael is. _Why_ he is. Do you know what it's like, being told you're the mother of the devil?"

Constance held up a stiff hand and smiled a persecuted smile. "Sister, you are preachin' to the choir! At least _yours_ came with a warning label at birth. I had to find out about mine the hard way!"

Vivien shifted her weight, not wanting to have something like that in common with Constance, but the root was the same. "Whatever Michael is... he's _not_ my son. He killed my son. I don't want to have anything to do with him. I've lost too much already."

Billie Dean looked down at her hands. She didn't have it in her to beg the woman. She didn't even want to be there herself, pitching the unholy boy's case. It was Constance she was trying to appease and the favor was putting a strain on their friendship as it was.

When the medium said nothing, Constance frowned and got up from the stool. "Well, I can see we've wasted our time," she said tightly. "We'll see ourselves out. Poor Michael's going to be heartbroken when he finds out his mama doesn't want to see him."

Vivien's jaw tightened. "While you're telling him that," she said. "Why don't you tell him about how you stole him from his parents in the first place!"

Constance paused and sent a superior half-smile over her shoulder at her. "Oh, so now you're his parent. Huh. Sure wish you'd make up your mind."

She and Billie Dean stepped out the back door then, leaving Vivien alone with her jangled feelings.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

So I thought Chad was done bitching last chapter but apparently he had a little left in him so it got wedged there at the top of chapter I was planning to write. I swear, writing this fic is like holding a video camera. I can usually aim it at what I want to film, but every now and then, a pushy character just grabs the lens and camera bombs like mad.

So if you're a geek like me, you know Evan Peters plays Tate and also played Quicksilver in _X-men: Apocalypse_.

As a side note, Taissa Farmiga, who plays Violet in AHS, is sister to Vera Farmiga, who plays Mrs. Bates in Bates Motel. Tate was partially inspired by Norman Bates. What a weird tangle of coincidences.

Next chapter we'll finally get to Halloween.


	5. Chapter 5 - Party Animals

**Halloween**

Pat thought he was being smart. He thought he'd covered his bases. Tate, dressed as Quicksilver, had Violet with him. She'd even bothered to throw on a red overcoat so she could pass for Scarlet Witch to match, for those who cared. With her there, the guy reasoned, they could all have a good time. He'd skipped the superhero theme and went simple with the Dread Pirate Roberts from _The Princess Bride_.

The car Patrick drove belonged to the previous owner of Murder House, taken by the ghosts of the house when they reci the house back from him. Pat enjoyed using the Rolls Royce but it, like everything in the house, was a hot commodity the others all wanted to use. It was especially in demand now that they could travel freely as far as the mist spread.

On Halloween, the car was particularly in demand, but Pat had skipped a turn with it the past several years in favor of doing the trick-or-treat routine. None of the three of them had used it on Halloween, in fact, which worked in their favor. Got them the car that year.

They drove through the smothering fog for over an hour before light could be seen. Then they drove another twenty minutes before finally pulling up at their destination. The outside of the building was lit up against the night, flashing with bright neon colors. The sign out front proclaimed it the Moonlight Rollerway.

"A roller rink?" Violet asked, at a loss.

Pat smiled and adjusted his black mask. "It's an all-ages Halloween party," he said. "I thought it might be better than a club."

He flashed her and Tate a smile then started toward the entrance. Violet looked at Tate, who looked amused by the flashing lights. She decided maybe the place wasn't a bad idea. She hooked her boyfriend's arm with her own and together they followed Pat to the entrance where he was already paying for their admission.

Tate tugged the door open and was immediately assaulted by thumping bass. He let the door shut again and looked over at Pat, who was stowing his wallet in his back pocket.

"It's loud," he reported.

"You'll get used to it," assured the Dread Pirate Pat and pulled the door open.

Bass whumped out. Violet steered Tate inside and Patrick followed them. There were lots of people inside, many of them on roller skates.

"I never learned how to skate," Violet admitted. She had to talk really loud to be heard over the music.

"Yeah?" Tate grinned and a cheek dimpled. "Me neither. My mother never let me have a skateboard either."

"I rollerbladed a little," added Violet. "But I was bad. After I broke my elbow twice, my dad said I probably shouldn't do it anymore. Some of the best advice he's given me."

Patrick led them over to the skate rental area but Tate looked dubious. He didn't want shared skates. He didn't really want to skate. Then he saw something behind the counter.

"Can we get those?" he asked Pat with a big grin, pointing to what he meant.

The big guy looked and snorted. "Oookay," he said. "Sure. But that's all you."

—

While Patrick rented a pair of skates, Tate and Violet got rideable scoot-abouts. They were technically made with kids in mind, but neither teen wanted to learn how to skate or spend the night falling down. The three-wheeled, low to the ground scoot-abouts were silly and slower than skating, but the couple had fun anyway. They chased each other and tried to scoot-dance to some of the more familiar songs. They even played a couple of rounds of "Limbo" when the facility ran the game.

The DJ did a couple of retro songs next, including a spin of YMCA that had most of the party skate-dancing, from octogenarian to toddler. Then a slow song came on and more than half of the rink cleared again, leaving a lot of couples, several clueless children, and a few lone skaters who weren't yielding the floor for anything.

It was easy for Tate to see Patrick out there then. He was skating with someone dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow. The sight made Tate feel weird and think of Chad. Chad was at home, likely serving up a fresh bowl of something ghoulishly themed to a house full of ghosts by then. Blithely unaware of how Cap'n Jack Sparrow was flanking the Dread Pirate Patrick's starboard side so closely.

Distracted, Tate almost ran into a tween dressed as Spiderman, who was coming from the opposite direction. Tate corrected his steering then headed for the side of the rink. Violet assumed he just didn't want to ride to the slow song so she followed suit. Once they were off the rink she grinned at him.

"Want to go check out the arcade games?" she asked.

He picked up his scoot-about to hide his expression from her till he was sure he wasn't frowning. "Yeah. Sure." He started off toward the back, where the games were. It was a bit like fording upstream, there were so many costumed people moving around.

"Hey," she said, catching his elbow. "Are you okay?"

Tate made himself pretend. He didn't want to explain what he was thinking to her when he didn't even understand it. "Yeah. I just don't like this song. It's like... really? How's this even Halloween?"

She acknowledged the point with a sour look of her own. "I know. You get one day out of the year to play fun stuff and they pick _this_."

There was a group of kids in the game zone, which made Tate not want to go over there. There wasn't anything over there worth elbowing through a crowd or waiting in line for. He hesitated, then looked at Violet.

"Hey. You want to just get out of here?" he asked. "Go someplace, just you and me?"

"Suuure," she agreed, suspicion turning the word into a drawl. "I thought the whole point in going out, though, was to... you know. Get out. Among people."

"Not this many," Tate said. He headed toward the rental booth so they could return their scoot-abouts.

Violet put hers up on the counter once the guy had taken Tate's. "We should tell Pat we're leaving. Where is he?"

Tate didn't want to tell Pat anything. He wanted to leave. "I don't see him," he said without looking. He took her nearest hand. "He'll figure it out. Come on."

He tried to head toward the exit but Violet held her ground and steered him back toward her with his hand. "You want to ditch Patrick?" She smiled but she was eyeing him real close.

That's not how he wanted her to take it. The whole outing was beginning to frustrate him and remind him of why he never went out on Halloween before Michael. He looked out over the skaters and found Patrick. Captain Jack Sparrow was doing some fancy backward skating in front of him and they were both smiling a lot.

"There he is," said Tate. "Do you want to tell him?"

She looked in the direction he was and saw what he saw. Her brows jumped a little. "Oh."

"Chad's gonna be pissed," Tate fretted, since she understood. He hugged her arm. He felt better touching her.

"They're just skating," she offered, trying to help. She tried to reclaim her limb, thinking to put it around his waist, but he wouldn't let her. "Come on. Let's go see if we can flag him down."

Tate let go of her arm then but kept hold of her hand. She led the way through the throng of unsteady people coming and going off the rink. They passed at least seven princesses, an equal number of superheroes, and a surprising amount of retro costumes that tapped 1990s pop culture for inspiration. A call back to a safer, more prosperous time.

They took a position at one of the entry points and waited till he and his skating partner were coming around again. Violet assumed they would both be waving but when the Dread Pirate Pat skated past, only she did. He saw her though and lifted his chin to let her know. He was going too fast to stop, though; he would have to wait and come off the rink the next go-around.

"Where do you want to go?" Violet asked.

"I don't know. The beach?"

Tate hadn't really thought about it. He just didn't want to be at the roller rink anymore. Suddenly the beach felt wrong too. No place he could think of felt right except home. And that was stupid because it was Halloween. His thoughts went back to Michael and how it was all his fault Tate's Halloween was sucking so hard.

"We could go up to the Hollywood sign, for real," she suggested.

"Can we still get up there?" he asked curiously. "I heard that whole area's pretty much off-limits now since the rich people started that compound."

"Off limits to ghosts?" Violet smiled quirkily.

He smiled but that's when pirate duo skated up, so the smile disappeared quickly.

"Hey," Patrick said as he slowed to a stop and came off the rink. The other pirate followed him. "What's up?"

There was an awkward pause between them as Violet expected Tate to say something, and he hoped she would. They looked at each other. Violet raised her brows at him because she wasn't going to speak for him on this one.

"We were thinking about taking off," he said at last. He glanced Pat's way but then shifted his attention to the glittery mirror ball overhead.

"Taking off?" Patrick echoed, confused. "We just got here."

"There's too many people," Tate responded after another lag of hope and glance at Violet.

The bigger guy looked around, only just noticing the crowd. It didn't bother him but Tate was a hermit crab and the man knew it. But Pat wasn't ready to leave yet.

"Why don't you call a Lyft?" he told them. "This time of year, there's probably five outside waiting."

"What about the fare?" Tate asked because neither he nor Violet carried currency.

Pat waved the concern away and pulled out a smart phone. He handed it to Tate. "Use my account. It should be saved to the phone. And Tate? Stay out of trouble."

The teen took the phone and shoved it into his coat pocket. "The name is Quicksilver," he corrected. If Pat was going to treat him like a kid in front of the dumb pirate man, then he'd deliver.

—

The young couple didn't get a Lyft; Tate had a lot of pent-up aggressive energy so he wanted to move. Across the nearby interstate was a large golf course and the Los Angeles zoo. It took about fifteen minutes for them to walk there and they did it mostly in silence.

The parking lot of the zoo was huge and suspiciously empty when they arrived. Neither had been to a zoo in years but they both were aware of how popular the place should be on Halloween. The whole place was deserted. There were no festive decorations or lighting; just the regular flood lights that fired up automatically every evening.

"Looks like a ghost town," Violet commented. She rubbed her arms to fend off the inward chill she got. The place put her in mind of a bad dream she'd had a long time ago.

"Is it closed?" Tate wondered aloud as they headed toward the entrance.

Arriving at the locked gates, the answer was apparent. The place was completely shut down. They'd even removed the sign that showed the park hours. The ticket booths looked like they hadn't been opened in months.

"I guess they're out of business," said Violet. She looked around for some sort of notice of closure but there was nothing helpful posted anywhere.

"Well, that sucks," opined Tate. He gave the gate a rattle then a sly smile dimpled his cheeks. "Let's go in anyway."

Violet felt a smile tickle the corners of her mouth. "You want to sneak into the zoo?"

He shrugged and broke into a grin. "Why not? It's not like we can get arrested if anybody sees us. I want to see what it looks like. Maybe we can go raid the gift shop. Do you think they left any toys in there?"

He was already looking for a way to climb the fence. On Halloween, his form was more substantial than other times and it made it harder to pass through solid objects. He didn't like doing that anyway, under normal circumstances. It felt strange and always left a weird taste in his mouth. The gate itself was a weird toothy drum that would rotate when unlocked, to form a turnstile. Locked, he found it worked like a ladder. Soon he was up and over.

"Come on, Violet!" he called.

She was already coming, though, having followed him up the gate as soon as she saw what he was doing. She landed beside him and straightened with a smile. Together they looked around the entry area. The nearby plants were all overgrown and simultaneously wilted. The drip system had been shut off in the area and the flora had come to rely on California weather patterns over the past few months. They passed an area that looked like it should have a running waterfall but was all dried up too.

"Wow," Tate marveled. "They really let this place go."

Violet tugged the sleeve of his silver jacket and pointed. "Gift shop."

The dark building was in a row of other closed-up kiosks and retail establishments. The windows were all dark. They went over and tried the doors but they, like the front gates, were locked. Peeking in through the dusty glass, they could see the room had been stripped down to the shelves.

"They really did close it up," observed Violet. She rubbed dust from the tip of her nose with a finger. "I thought maybe they were renovating but it looks like they closed up for good. I wonder why?"

Moving away from the shop, they passed a closed-up concession stand and a booth advertising train rides. There was a scaled-down track there but no train in evidence. Then they both heard a very loud noise, somewhere ahead and off to the right. It was a siren of a sound that started out high then dropped to a strange whoomp-whoomping.

They looked at each other with wide eyes. Violet had never heard that sound before but Tate, who loved animal documentaries and had seen about a million of them, had. The sound was very distinct and went with only one creature.

"That's a siamang," he said.

More of the sounds started up as the first died. In the distance, a deeper barking howl started up. As the pair listened, they could hear more and more sounds of life in the zoo.

"Holy shit," Violet said as they moved deeper into the dark zoo. "I think the animals are all still here."

Tate wished he had a flashlight. Then he remembered the phone Patrick had given him. He pulled it out and fiddled with it a bit. He didn't like technology. It was always changing and never in ways that were intuitive. He managed to find the flashlight app without help though and he turned it on.

"Looks like Silent Hill," he remarked as they came out into the main portion of the zoo.

The entire left side of the expansive park was shrouded in the same fog that permanently blanketed their home. It thinned at the midway point; to the right everything was dark with the exception of the rare emergency path light. The vegetation was in the same condition as the front: Overgrown and in various states of dying at once.

"Guess that's why they closed it," said Violet, eyeing the curling mist.

From that side they could hear more sounds that might or might not be of natural origin. The sounds from the dark side of the zoo were just as strange to Violet's ears. They passed a dark carousel; the animals had freaky faces and strange colors. Some were mounted backward. She stared, again getting that creepy sensation that she'd dreamt this. She lit a cigarette to warm the darkness and calm her nerves.

"I can't believe they went off and left the animals," said Tate. The more he thought about it, the more appalling he found it. "If they were going to close it, why didn't they send the animals somewhere else?"

"Maybe there's nowhere to send them," she ventured. "I think the whole world's kind of going to shit."

They skirted the foggy area and headed deeper into the right side of the zoo. The monkey sounds were coming from that direction.

"If there's no zoos to take them," said Tate. "Then they should've just let them go."

"In the city?"

Tate shone the flashlight to the right and spied the aviary. He lit up and broke into a trot.

"Tate," Violet said, her sense of dread growing. "Maybe you shouldn't—"

It was too late. He'd already made it to the platform. The large mesh cage was dark. It seemed empty.

"Maybe they're sleeping," he said, not about to give up on seeing birds. He hadn't seen a real bird in years and years.

He hopped down off the platform, excitement growing as he darted down to the path that led right up to the giant bird house. He could hear Violet calling him but he knew she'd catch up. He hopped a low wooden rail but he still couldn't see any birds on the branches through the mesh. He spied a door on the side of the aviary and trotted over. It had a STAFF ONLY sign on it but it wasn't locked when he tried it.

Letting himself in, he passed through a small maintenance room filled with small cages and bird supplies, from food to medical equipment. Through another door was the aviary itself. He let himself out into the wide pair of connected hexagonal fly spaces and shone the flashlight around the ceiling. An artful collection of branches, nesting baskets, and foliage offered a nice place for birds but there weren't any up there.

Then he looked down.

All over the ground were hundreds of birds. The flashlight cast stark shadows behind each curled up body. They were all dead.

"Oh, man," Violet breathed from the doorway. She came up behind him and put an arm around his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

Tate continued to stare at all the lifeless piles of feathers and feet. Broken wings jutted at odd angles. He wrinkled his nose and fought back the angry tears that were burning his eyes. It didn't help. Tears slipped over his cheeks and hit the front of his shirt.

"Fuckers let 'em die," he sniffled and wiped the back of his hand under his chin because the tears that ran there were making him itch. Then he mopped his face with the hem of his shirt and sniffled some more.

Violet gave him a squeeze. "Come on," she said. She tugged him toward the door.

Once they were back out of the aviary, she led him deeper into the zoo. That confused him because he thought for sure she would want to go home.

"Where are we going?"

She smiled and took his hand. "We're going to let the rest go."

He tipped his head, then a smile slowly stole over his tear-puffy face.

—

It was hard work freeing the animals that were still alive. There weren't many keys to be found so the mission involved a lot of breaking things. Most of the animals didn't want to leave, either, spooked by the presence of the dead. Tate figured out how to use that natural aversion to their advantage: They went where ever they didn't want the animals to be. That worked especially well on the wildcats; not so well on the rhino. They discovered a rhinoceros, when frightened, had a tendency to run _at_ what it was scared of, rather than away from it.

There wasn't anything to be done for the animals in the foggy side of the zoo. Tate and Violet didn't even go very far in after it became apparent that everything there was either dead or hideously mutated.

They used some bolt cutters they found in one of the maintenance sheds to cut the padlock off the loading gate. With some effort they pushed the wide bay door open. By then dawn was tinting the sky pink and they could feel the urge to return to Murder House growing. The newly freed animals would have to figure out for themselves where the exit was. Hopefully hunger would lead the way.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

In 2011, an Ohio man owned a lot of wild animals. When he had problems with his wife and city officials over the exotic "pets" he vindictively turned them loose and killed himself. 56 half-starved animals were set free without warning. 48 were shot and killed, including: 18 tigers, 17 lions, 3 mountain lions, 6 black bears, 2 grizzlies, a baboon, and a wolf.

That, to me, is a horror story.

If you want to get an idea of what the zoo would look like, check out Life After People episode 3. It has some great footage of what the San Diego zoo would look like over the years, if people disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6 - Michael's Holidays

...

Halloween was different that year for Michael as well. He had gone trick-or-treating with the ghost boy next door for most of his short life. In the days that immediately preceded the holiday, it felt weird not to plan for trick-or-treat. He almost changed his mind about it but then remembered what a jerk Ethan had been, so he stuck to his resolution.

Mama Constance didn't really want to go anywhere but Michael managed to talk her into going uptown with him and Father Jeremiah for dinner. He didn't want to do baby stuff like beg for candy but Michael still wanted to get out and about on his favorite holiday. He even wore his black Jack-o-lantern t-shirt so people would know he wasn't a Halloween Grinch.

It was a pleasant time. The restaurant was crowded and a bit slow because of it, but the service was friendly and they even put Michael's leftovers in a piece of foil wrapped up to look like a swan. He was admiring the surprising amount of detail on the way back to the car when a scuffle nearby caught his attention.

That's all he registered before a man in a dirty brown trench coat grabbed him. "Death to the antichrist!"

The guy pulled a long knife across the boy's throat. Constance screamed. Jeremiah dove for the assailant. The blade was sharp and cut down to the bone before the priest could tackle the man. The two fell away from the boy, who dropped to the sidewalk, bleeding profusely.

Constance dropped to her knees and gathered Michael in her arms, wailing incoherently in horror as he twitched and gurgled for air. Then he lay still and his eyes got glassy. Jeremiah had disarmed the man and another guy from the crowd was helping Jeremiah hold the attacker down. The man shouted about God and Jesus and the end of days. People called for help and took pictures. In the distance, sirens wailed.

—

The blade felt like hard pressure to Michael and suddenly he couldn't breathe. The world got gray, then faded to black and he felt nothing.

A cold hand on his arm woke him. He opened his eyes and started to shiver because he was freezing cold. Every hair on his body stood on end. Cold hands lifted him and he saw they were coal black. Like solid shadows. The skin absorbed light where most flesh reflected it. Michael looked up the black-robed arms and saw a hooded figure with a strange but masculine face. Like a cross between a lion and a human, but not furry. He wore a padded breastplate studded with strange, dark gems that reminded Michael of eyes. The entity had strong alien power it gave off but Michael didn't sense hostility from it. It was like being in the presence of a churning volcano that was active but not erupting.

The celestial being cradled him close and there was a great rushing sound as it unfurled three sets of bat-like wings. It tipped its head back then and shot straight up so fast, the world blurred. They came to a peak and started back down at a freefall, headfirst.

Michael clung to the front of the creature, too frightened to scream. He had no idea what was happening but he knew he wasn't dreaming. It felt too real. He looked up and saw the street rushing toward them then a wide hole of shimmering blackness opened up and they dove headlong into that.

The cold began to ease, though Michael was hardly of a mind to be grateful as they rushed down,

down,

down,

down.

Red light suddenly bloomed, blinding the boy briefly. When he could see again they were flying parallel to a giant black lake that stretched in all directions. Hazy red points of light stemmed from fires that marked the near and far shores and the distant horizon was the same greasy red. The creature that held him carried him swiftly over the expanse of glittering dark water, to one of those Plutonian shores.

Michael expected they might land on the rocky beach there but the six-winged creature swooped upward, following the slope of the land up a steep mountain, to the very top. Nestled among the sharp crags there was a giant black dragon. The eleven-year-old boy was like a doll compared to its immense size. It lifted its massive, horned head and looked right at him and the creature bearing him.

"So soon?"

The Dragon's voice was a landslide inside Michael's head, heard not with ears but felt and understood. The words, which were no language spoken by man, held so much power, it was like a weight pressing down on the boy's brain.

"It is what it is," the being that held Michael thought-said. Its voice was like distant thunder: A muted rumble.

The Dragon rose and arched its neck. For a moment the boy thought it was going to eat them both but it just opened its jaws for a slow stretch that showed hundreds of sharp ebony teeth and a glistening snake-like tongue. Then it shut the fearsome maw again.

"Come with me, my Son."

The Dragon lowered its neck and the thing that held Michael moved closer. He could have struggled as it placed him on the giant creature but he didn't. He was scared but not panicked. The immensity of the alien situation was overwhelming, so he just went with the flow. He straddled the bumpy neck and grabbed hold of two of the bigger horns, careful of the points. It was like sitting on an enormous horned toad.

As soon as he was settled, the Dragon spread its mighty wings. They unfurled as wide as airplane wings and gave an invigorating shake. Dust clouds went up and then, with a mighty leap, they were airborne.

For Michael, it was exhilarating and terrifying. "Where are we?" he asked as they flew over the dusky land. The wind tore the words from his lips and dried his mouth.

Far below, the landscape was dark and shrouded in mist or smoke. Dark green trees with black branches poked through the haze. Where the fog broke occasionally he could see dirt roads but nothing moved.

"Tartarus," the Dragon answered in his head.

The boy expected more of an answer than that but when the great beast gave none, he asked: "Where are we going?" Only this time he thought it instead of using his mouth. He wasn't sure it would work but the Dragon seemed to hear him.

"Above," it said.

"Above?"

"You are needed in your kingdom, young Prince," the Dragon said. Despite the immense potency of the thought-voice, Michael felt at ease hearing it now that it wasn't a new experience.

"My kingdom?"

"You are the Prince of the Earth," the Dragon said simply. "You are the Lion. Your destiny is to lead Men to the Light. The world is yours. What you do with it is up to you. There will come one, the Lamb, the Son of Man, who will challenge your rule. Be ready for him. He will seek to destroy you."

The Dragon sounded like the scriptures Father Jeremiah made Michael recite. He held on tighter as the creature ascended, leaving the shadowy land behind. Cold blackness returned. Michael began to shiver as the cold quickly ate to his core. He wanted to ask more questions but the Dragon sped up then and it was all he could do just to hold on.

The world suddenly exploded into brightness and pain, but the pain quickly went away. He was shivering violently though he could tell it was warmer now.

"Michael!"

It was Mama Constance's voice. The boy blinked and slowly the world swam into view. There was a white ceiling overhead and underneath him was very cold. He sat up and looked around, wide-eyed. He was in a hospital room, on a big metal table. He was naked under the thin bloody sheet that fell to his waist when he pushed himself up. Father Jeremiah and Mama Constance rushed the table. They were in the operating room where his DOA body had been delivered roughly ten minutes before.

"Mama Constance..?" the boy asked, not sure what had happened. The vision he'd had was still vivid in his mind and felt more real than anything else at the moment.

"It's a miracle," the woman breathed. She came close and gently lifted Michael's chin to examine his neck. There was still dried blood there but there was no wound. There wasn't even a scar. "It's like he wasn't even injured."

"I saw a Dragon," the boy told Father Jeremiah while Constance continued her examination. "He said I was the Prince of the Earth."

Jeremiah smiled and his eyes lit up. "You are indeed."

Michael looked thoughtful. "What does that mean?"

The priest pressed his lips together briefly. "It means... When you're older, you will have a lot of responsibility but you'll also have a lot of power to handle those responsibilities with. You'll be as you are now, only stronger and with more control over what happens in the world."

Michael tipped his head. That answer didn't sound like what the Dragon had said. The Dragon made it sound like the world was Michael's toy. His to do with as he pleased, responsibilities optional. The priest knew a lot though so the boy didn't correct him. Yet. "I'm cold."

Constance offered the boy's clothes to him. The nurse had bagged them in anticipation of cleaning the corpse. The items were bloody and Constance wished they had something better to give him. It was too late to go to the gift shop for a t-shirt as they were closed for the night.

"Will I be able to get rid of mosquitoes?" asked Michael, still wondering about himself.

Jeremiah smiled tolerantly. "Quite possibly. But mosquitoes are important to lots of creatures as a food source."

"Even now that the monsters took over?"

Michael was intensely curious about the world now that he'd been proclaimed junior owner of it. If it was really his, he wanted to know everything he could about it and more. He suddenly wanted to re-watch every Planet Earth documentary he'd seen. It was like a virtual owner's manual.

"I'm not really sure," the man admitted. "But it would probably be wise to hold off on wiping out any species without first understanding if it's vital."

Michael could see the value in that statement even if he didn't appreciate mosquitoes any better. "Where's the man who hurt me?"

Constance pushed the dirty clothes into the boy's hands since he wasn't moving to take them from the table. He started dressing but was obviously distracted. He got the shirt on inside out.

"He's in jail right now," said Father Jeremiah.

"Can I see him?"

Constance and the priest exchanged a look. "I'm sure they'll want you to testify at the trial—" she started.

"I want to see him now."

"I don't know if that's allowed," said Father Jeremiah.

Michael tipped his head and thought. "Can we go there now? And see?"

The adults shared another look.

"I suppose," said Constance. "We'll need to tell the police what's happened anyway. May as well get it over with."

—

The police wouldn't allow the boy to visit the prisoner but they were quite interested in taking down his story. Michael knew he could force them to let him see the man but he decided to play along. He had a moment of inspiration on the way to the station and knew how best to handle the whole matter.

He told the police what he remembered about the attack, which wasn't much. Just the screaming and pressure, then waking up in the hospital. He omitted the dream. It wasn't for them to know what he experienced in the land of the dead.

The police called in the doctors, and they all decided his injury simply couldn't have been as severe as everyone had thought. The boy had likely been deprived of oxygen when the hobo seized him, and had slipped into a coma, explaining his death-like state on arrival at the hospital. The copious amount of blood they couldn't account for but no one pressed about it.

Michael surviving meant the man couldn't be tried for murder. The prosecution would have to push for an attempted murder plea but would likely only prove aggravated assault. That only worried the adults, who didn't want the crazy man back out on the street. A whole bunch rallied to Michael's cause, picketing the municipal building with signs.

At the trial, Michael had to be there to give his testimony. Mama Constance and Father Jeremiah were there to do the same. They kept encouraging him but he didn't need it. He felt confident and calm. Ever since his death dream, he had a new sense of purpose. He had a drive to get things done as efficiently as possible so he could move on to the next thing.

The trial proceeded in textbook fashion, with the lawyers stating their cases and making opening arguments to sway the jurors. They were supposed to start calling witnesses then but the defendant fell over dead from a heart attack. Michael didn't even have to move his hands to do it this time. He could sense the man's heart even across the room so he just pressed on it with his thoughts until it popped.

They rushed the prisoner out of the courtroom to an ambulance but he was already dead before they got him out the door. He was a problem that wouldn't return and Michael could get back to his studies. If the dream taught him anything, it was that he had a lot to learn.

...

 **2025 - Christmas**

It was not a merry Christmas.

Mama Constance had been mad all morning because she thought one of the neighbors at Murder House took all the bourbon she was going to use for cooking and to get drunk on that evening. Getting more would mean driving nearly two hours in order to find a store that was still in business and open on Christmas day. After a couple of hours of listening to her complain about the situation with the bourbon, it started to wear on Michael's nerves. He tried various suggestions:

"Can't you go next door and get it back?"

"You're a ghost. Can't you just make some be in the fridge?"

"I'll go if it's that important to you!"

Nothing he said made a difference. She forbade him to go by himself to the store, even though he knew how to drive. Father Jeremiah had taught him. Michael was a fast learner—and a fast driver. He loved the freedom he felt behind the wheel of a moving car. The whole world was his; the foggy parts especially. No one but him and the priest drove on the abandoned roads near their neighborhood anymore.

He didn't particularly want to leave that day, though. He just wanted his grandmother to stop complaining and ruining everyone else's day over it. Shortly after lunch he reached his breaking point. She came into the living room where he was reading a comic and she started in again on the ghosts next door.

"Jesus H Christ! Will you stop?!" the fourteen-year-old exploded, throwing the comic across the room. It flew so fast, it cracked the glass in a picture frame on the wall. He got to his feet then, livid. "You love your bourbon so God-damned much! Have some fucking bourbon!"

He got an intense look of concentration then and his face turned red. He trembled a little. Little beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip. She would have been concerned but she was dead. He couldn't hurt her.

Michael relaxed suddenly and swayed where he stood. His eyes rolled back. Despite the strange encounter, Constance's instinct was to dive in and catch him when his knees gave out. She held him up and pet his hair back from his forehead. He didn't pass out but he was incapacitated for a few seconds.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, not sure what to make of his temper tantrum. "Let's get you to bed. A nap... a nap will do you good. "

She helped him up the stairs and to his room. He was walking on his own by the time they got to the bedroom. Constance fully intended to put him to bed even though he was thirteen, but he stopped suddenly and stared at his fish tank.

She looked over as well and her brows shot up. The water in the tank was golden brown. His pet fish, a palm-sized carp he'd owned for half his life, was belly up at the surface.

Michael broke away from her and grabbed the side of the tank. Constance joined him and noticed a strong scent of alcohol coming from the aquarium. Bourbon.

"Mama Constance..."

Michael poked the floating fish and then recoiled. He knew death when he saw it. He stared at it with wide, dry eyes.

"I... You. You turned the water... into bourbon," Constance breathed, overwhelmed.

The boy didn't want to hear about how it was his fault. He just wanted the mistake fixed. "I didn't mean to kill him," he said, anxiety growing enormously. Words made it more real. "Mama Constance!"

She pulled her attention off the tank full of liquor and blinked at her grandson. "I can't do anything, honey. He's gone."

Michael scowled at the floating fish. "No."

"Yes, Michael. He is."

"No!"

The teen leaned against the tank and stared at the fish for several seconds. The fish twitched and flopped. Then it suddenly righted itself and started to swim. Once she got over the shock of seeing the creature reanimate, Constance waited for it to die again.

But it didn't die. It continued to swim about in the alcohol like it was born to be there.

—

They discovered all the water in the house had turned to bourbon. The water in the pipes had to be cleared, as did the water heater. Constance saved some from the faucets, storing it in mason jars in the cupboard. The toilets were actually cleaner once they were flushed clear, thanks to the potent potable. Some of the canned food tasted of bourbon when it was prepared for weeks after, which the adults didn't mind but Michael didn't care for.

The whole experience really put him off the holiday, with the lone exception of Morty. Having a fish that lived in bourbon was kind of cool. His fish was unique in the world, not just because it could breathe alcohol but because it was the first thing he'd killed that he successfully brought back.

It gave the teen plenty of food for thought. He knew Ethan and pretty much everyone over at the Montgomery Mansion was dead in some way and that never stopped any of them from having "lives". He wanted to know what had happened to Morty while he was dead. He knew death wasn't like sleep because Mama Constance's body and soul were separated in death. Did that mean Morty had a soul? Where was it when the bourbon killed it? How did Michael call it back? The mystery gnawed at him more, the more time he spent dwelling on it.

When it came time to open Christmas presents, the boy was uncharacteristically subdued. Ordinarily he loved opening presents but this year, there were no plans to do anything with Ethan. The wealth of contemporary toys just looked like so much pointless colored plastic. The candy he still appreciated but he was far more interested in the books Father Jeremiah gifted him with than anything else that year. The books were solid brown fabric over wood, a collection of old fables penned in the early 1800s with titles so faded, they could barely be made out. He would have to read them to discover their nature.

Once everyone had gone through their gifts and Father Jeremiah was shaking out a trash bag for the discarded wrapping, Michael decided to tell them his plan.

"Thank you for the nice gifts," he said politely. "Next year, though, don't get me anything, please."

Constance stared at him like he'd gone mad. A smile tickled her lips. Was he joking? "Why is that, sweetheart?"

Jeremiah paused and looked at him as well but didn't say anything just yet.

"Because," Michael said, since he had the floor. "I'm done with it. I'm not a little kid anymore. You don't need to spend money on toys I'm probably not even going to play with."

She looked hurt and the boy wondered briefly if he could have been nicer about it. Then he decided it was more important that she know the truth than spare her feelings.

"If you really want to give me something, just... make my favorite dessert," he suggested, trying to be nice. "But honestly? I think it's kind of stupid for me to be celebrating Christmas. I seriously doubt Jesus would celebrate my birthday, if he was alive."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

It's going to be a busy week for me so I figured I'd post this a bit early. The imagery I used in Michael's dream is derived directly from religion. I tapped the Christians, Hinduism, Greek mythology, Roman, and quite by accident, the Elevator Game.

Apparently my description of Tartarus falls in line with what people claim to have seen after playing the Elevator Game. Supposedly playing the game sends you to a dead land, where an indistinct red light glows in the distance. I hadn't heard that till after this chapter was written. Spooky!

So this Episode got a bit long. There's still a couple more chapters coming. This ep rolls up Michael's adolescence. Spoiler: I'm not aging him overnight so I'm having to skim through the years instead, to give you an idea of how things have turned out over time without turning this into a Walking Dead crossover or Avengers sequel.

Next time: Michael learns he can heal as well as destroy, and he finally tries to talk to his mother, Vivien.


	7. Chapter 7 - Local God

**Early 2026**

Purple Tide was what the news called the stuff that spread out over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. It was a new breed of algae-like organisms that bloomed following a major underwater earthquake. The stuff resembled Crimson Tide in the way it grew but it spread a lot faster, encouraged by the surface temperature.

Global warming and pollution took the blame for the spreading organism but no one really understood it. It killed marine life where ever it spread: Fish, mammals, coral, even snails. It spread slower in colder water but it spread nonetheless, till it covered nearly a third of the planet's oceans. By the time scientists found a way to stop its spread, the fishing industry was devastated.

Dead fish, whales, and dolphins that washed ashore had to be incinerated by the tons, deemed unsafe for consumption when several sea birds dropped dead after scavenging from the carcasses. The cleanup efforts on land and out on the waves were heroic and awe-inspiring but, in the end, the people were overwhelmed by the sheer amount of death.

Worse: Underfed nations couldn't stop their hungry from feeding on the poisoned flesh. Emergency rooms, then morgues, filled up as desperate people did what they could to survive in a growing state of worldwide chaos.

Then the dead started to get back up. All massive ecological relief efforts ended as the governments turned their attention to handling the mounting zombie crisis. In Los Angeles, the living abandoned the city, either evacuating further inland toward the border states or retreating to the fortified mansions and cave bunkers of the Hollywood hills.

...

 **June 2026**

The fog covered most of the United States. Other nations were struggling with similar fates: Japan's Aokigahara (Suicide) Forest spewed out enough of the gray mist to cover all of the islands and parts of neighboring areas of China, bringing with it all kinds of ghoulish creatures. China had no shortage of spectral weather of its own: A permanent storm took hold over one the Yun Shan Fan Dian hotel, prohibiting passage to and from the building. For days, hotel guests and workers used their cell phones to beg for assistance but rescue workers couldn't get near the building. Then the calls and texts stopped.

The Ararat Asylum in Australia leaked the same eerie fog to such a degree that it covered the whole landmass. It had a strange effect on the cane toads, bloating them to triple their size in some cases, without killing them. Elsewhere, Frankenstein Castle lived up to its spooky reputation by blanketing both Austria and Germany. In Russia, Black Dolphin Prison was the greatest source of the hellish vapor. Vesuvius, in Italy, erupted violently, taking out three settlements before shrouding the whole continent in more of the same fog that was taking over the planet.

The fog wasn't as easy to detect at first in places like the United Kingdom, but the onset of monsters that came with it was hard to miss. The Isla de las Munecas and Chichen Itza both contributed to the disappearance of South America. The Catacombs of Paris plagued the nation of France with some particularly disturbing creatures. Canada's Craigdarroch Castle may as well have been a historical twin to the Montgomery Mansion, and it spewed out the same spectral fog.

All around the world, things were going crazy.

Cities condensed. Outlying towns and villages were wiped out or fled for the protection of the bigger settlements. Individual hold-outs fell off the grid as power and WiFi became scarce. Television and radio broadcasts became popular again: It was easier for most to pick up those signals rather than the internet. Print also became more popular, as it was the most portable and reliable way to send news. There was a fortified settlement up in the Hollywood Hills, the only one like it in the state of California. There were several homes outside the sanctuary but their owners had to fight to keep them.

The ghosts didn't have to fight to keep Murder House. No creature wanted to risk coming close to that place. The mortals still needed things, though, which required having to go up to the compound for supplies. Jeremiah often took Michael and made a day of it. They could get supplies, catch up on local happenings, and have a nice lunch made by someone else for a change.

They were on one such supply mission, touring the fresh vegetable section of the market, when a man suddenly had a seizure. Michael had never seen anything like it before. One moment, the man was a background object. The next, he was on his back, twitching on the concrete, the center of everyone's attention. He hit his chin on the edge of a bin of grapefruits on his way down and was bleeding all over himself as he convulsed.

"Not again!" exclaimed a thick-set woman nearby. She owned the fruit stand and she came over, waving her hands frantically. She sounded mad, not worried. "I wish he would find someone to shop for him!"

Michael moved closer. Father Jeremiah followed his ward. The grocer looked down at the twitching man as more people gathered around. Nobody seemed to know what to do.

"What's wrong with him?" a skinny man in his late 50's asked.

"He has seizures. Epilepsy, I think," the woman answered. "He comes here and doesn't take his medication and this happens! I can call for the medics but by the time they get here, he'll be up again."

"He does this a lot?" Michael asked, curious.

She looked at him and her brows went up. "Yes and it's always a big pain for everyone. He should find someone to help him."

Michael didn't understand what she meant by that so he looked at the stricken man instead. He'd bitten his tongue and now blood was coming out of his mouth too. The fourteen-year-old tipped his head and then moved closer to the twitching person.

"Don't get too close," the woman cautioned. "It's better just to leave him. He'll get up eventually."

Michael ignored her. He crouched down next to the man and put a hand on his forehead. Then he put another one over the guy's heart. He could feel the brain and heart, wracked with arrhythmic spasms, just like the man's body was. Michael focused on trying to calm those sensations. It was like squeezing the worm-man's brain-heart only instead of popping the organs, he just restrained them.

The man's seizures ceased but Michael didn't notice. He was too wrapped up in the internal organs to care about the shell. The brain was faulty. It was missing little nodules on the neurons in some places. He didn't know the scientific names for the parts but he could tell what was wrong and reshaped those areas they way they should be. It wasn't a perfect job but it was a lot better than before.

The man stirred and took a deep breath as his thoughts cleared and his headache went away. His chin tingled as the flesh there knit up and his tongue itched with rapid healing as well. All around, the gathered crowd murmured and those who still had them recorded footage with their devices and texted friends. Video of the market miracle hit what was left of social media and went viral instantly.

"We should go," Father Jeremiah advised. The crowd was getting livelier as they discussed what they 'd just seen.

"Hey!" said a guy nearby. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a trilby. "Who are you? How did you do that?"

Michael got to his feet and backed toward Father Jeremiah but he looked at the man who was addressing him. "My name is Michael Langdon," he said. "I did it because I can."

He and Father Jeremiah turned to leave then. Several people stayed to help the fallen man and to talk to him about his experience. Others followed the man and boy.

"Can I get your phone number?" an elderly woman asked as she hurried after them. "My grand-daughter is deathly ill. Please! I can pay you!"

Michael kept walking mostly because Father Jeremiah had hold of his arm now and was trying to hurry him to the parking lot. The teen said over a shoulder to her: "Bring her to the fruit seller's stall next Saturday. I'll be there then!"

They hurried away then and the small throng fell back.

The next weekend Father Jeremiah didn't think it was a good idea to go to the market but Michael insisted. He wanted to keep his word to the little old lady. It made him feel in control and confident when he did the things he said he was going to do.

When they got to the Hollywood market, though, they were met with a surprise: The handful of people who had heard he would be there had spread the news. Nearly 300 people had gathered in the market, each in need of assistance. Many couldn't get proper healthcare, being too poor to afford it. Some had conditions that would have been treatable at a hospital but the only one that was doing business was located deep inside the Hollywood Hills compound where all the rich people fled. They didn't let anyone into that sector, not even to get medical care.

Michael was overwhelmed at first but, with the assistance of some of the able-bodied family members of people who came for healing, he was able to help everyone over the course of the day. The massive event was live streamed on the limited data services that still existed. Soon his name was heard in settlements and compounds all over the world.

...

 **2027**

Despite living right next door, it had been nearly two years since Michael was inside the Montgomery Mansion. At first it was the fight that kept him away but then he just got busy. After the mass healing at the Hollywood market, people all over wanted to meet him. He got interview requests and photo requests and people wanting him to travel to them.

Father Jeremiah handled things like scheduling interviews but Michael had to show up and talk to people. He didn't like the publicity part. The people who managed that stuff were pushy and weird. He preferred to deal directly with the individual who wanted to know who he was and what he could do.

It was tiring, though, proving himself to a dying world. He started to miss the simple pleasures of his friendship with the boy next door, so he finally went over to pay him a visit, and to see if he could finally get his mother to talk to him. He wanted her to know the things he been doing. If she knew how he'd been healing people and killing rogue fog monsters with Father Jeremiah, maybe she would be proud of him.

Tate answered the door when the fifteen-year-old rang the bell. For the ghost boy, seeing Michael up close was weird. It was like looking into a warped mirror. The other boy was slightly taller than he was but had the same hair and eye color. They had similar builds. Michael was better dressed; Chad would approve of the pressed black pants and starchy gray button-down shirt the young man wore.

"Hey," greeted Tate when he got over the shock of how much the other boy had grown. He'd barely noticed the time pass. As such, he was still pretty sore over the argument they'd had. "What's up?"

"Hi," Michael smiled. "Can I see Ethan?"

Tate leaned on the door and thought about it. "No."

Michael's smile faded to puzzlement. "Why not?"

"I don't think he wants to see you," Tate shrugged. "He was pretty mad after you left last time."

"Well, will you go ask him?" Michael said. He found it hard to believe his childhood friend would still be grudging over a fight from years before.

"Okay," Tate said with another shrug. "You want to come in and wait while I go get him?"

"Yeah."

Tate let the other teen in then headed for the stairs. He started up but stopped when he noticed Michael was following him. "Go wait in the living room," he said, annoyed. He couldn't pretend to talk to Ethan if the other boy wouldn't leave him alone.

Michael didn't like being ordered around but this wasn't his house. He didn't know why Tate was being a jerk to him and didn't appreciate that either but he headed to the great room to wait as instructed. Tate disappeared into his room upstairs, where he paced for a bit, thinking about what he wanted to do. Finally he went back downstairs, putting on a rueful look as he headed into the sitting room.

"Sorry," he said to Michael, who was sitting on one of the hard gray couches. "Ethan said he doesn't want to see you."

Michael frowned. He wasn't terribly experienced with having real hurt feelings. He didn't know how to react to the torrent of emotions that came with the slight. "He did not."

"Yeah, he did," Tate pressed. "He said you're a dick and the devil's son and he doesn't like you anymore."

Michael was stung. He didn't want to believe Tate but he had been in the house for several minutes now and Ethan hadn't come around to say hi. He always knew when Michael was there. Which meant he didn't want the teen to see him.

"Oh. Okay." Michael's eyebrows burned like they did when he felt like crying. "I guess I'll go."

He got up then and hurried out of the room, hurt and angry. He didn't want Tate to see him cry. The ghost boy watched him leave and felt a pang of regret and self-doubt. But Michael hadn't acted at all sorry for not coming over sooner. He ran off quickly too. If he really wanted to see Ethan, he would have tried harder. That's what Tate told himself.

...

Michael didn't leave the house when he left Tate's company. He almost did, but instead of going out the front door, he went to the stairs instead. He sat down to compose himself before he went home. He didn't need anyone there asking him questions to make him feel worse.

Sitting there in the dark stairway, he wondered where his mother was in the house. Billie Dean had said Vivien didn't want to see Michael. That's what Tate said about Ethan too. It really bothered him that people he should be close to could so easily shut him out. He wondered, too, how they could even do that.

Then he got to thinking about his own strange abilities. He could do things no other human could. That was because he wasn't human, Father Jeremiah had taught him. He was special. He thought about it some more and tried to search for Tate's organs. The worm-man and the people in the market had organs that were different but they were still organs.

Michael couldn't feel anything when he felt for Tate's innards but he wasn't sure if that was because Tate had none or if it was because Michael was too far away. Searching for the insides of any of the ghosts he knew netted the same result. He sighed and propped his chin with one hand.

How could he find something that didn't want to be found? He thought about calling to her but he didn't want to attract unwanted attention from anything else in the house. He wasn't afraid; he knew he could handle anything that might want to hurt him. He just didn't want the company while he was feeling moody.

He thought some more. He was sure there was a way to find her if he just put his will to the matter. He'd cured a dying woman of cancer and brought a fish back from the dead. He homed in on that thought. When Morty was dead, Michael had felt his organs but he had also felt something else: The spark of energy that actually made the fish live.

Michael sat up and focused. This time, instead of trying to find organs, he searched for that energy spark. What he found dazzled him.

The space all around him lit up in his brain like stars. They were everywhere. Over thirty, he guessed, hovering around. Occasionally one would sparkle or dart through space to another spot in the house. They were all different colors, though most were muted hues. Some were round, some were oblong. A few clustered together, flickering like candle flame. Together they gave off a phosphorescent glow that pulsed steadily, like a battery.

He found the effect surprisingly tranquil and it took him several minutes to remember that he was searching for a particular one of those energy signals. He wasn't sure who was who just looking at them, though. He could guess the one in the great room was Tate. He studied that light pattern for a bit, to familiarize himself with it. Tate was like a Tesla ball: faintly purplish blue and giving off erratic sudden bursts of energy in varying sizes and intensities.

The rest of the lights had their own unique colors and brightness levels. Some sparked, some just sat there glowing steadily, or faintly. One, two floors above him, was almost white. It was the brightest of them all and it shimmered with opalescent tones. He oriented on that one, instinctively drawn to it. Soon he was heading up the stairs.

The light was in the music room, hovering near the center. The room, to him, appeared empty and dusty with disuse. He watched the light shimmer in his mind's eye for a few seconds then he stepped into the room. It was cooler in there, despite the sunlight coming through the wide windows.

"Mrs. Harmon? " he said tentatively. He hoped it was her or he'd feel really silly. "Vivien?"

The light dimmed and he could tell it was going to go away. Michael's frustration reached a breaking point and he focused on the energy source, just like he had with Morty. He pulled on the light, willing the soul into his reality with all his might.

She appeared then, fully visible to him. He swayed a little, dizzy from the effort of bringing a dead soul into the material plane.

"What did you just do?" she said, hugging herself.

He brushed his ragged fringe back from his eyes and looked at her. He had never even seen a picture of her before but he knew she was his mother. He could feel it in her essence. To him, she was perfection. She was radiant, like an angel.

"I just want to talk to you," he said.

Vivien looked at him warily. He was as tall as she was and looked so much like his father, she didn't have to ask who he was. She knew when he called to her. It's why she'd tried to retreat.

"I don't have anything to say," she said tightly. She'd never expected to have this conversation.

"Please," he implored. He took a step closer to her and she took a quick step back. "I just want to know... who my mother is."

Vivien looked away. She wasn't stone and the teen boy wasn't without charm. But Michael had caused her nothing but pain when she was alive and if what she'd heard about him was true, he would only bring more pain in the future to anyone close to him.

"I'm not your mother," she said in a shaky voice. She was still looking up at the ceiling so she couldn't see the pain on the teen's face when she said that. If she looked at him, she would cry. "You were a parasite that this house planted in me. You killed me, you killed my baby... and you'll kill again. You destroy things, Michael. It's what you were born to do."

His expression crumbled then and he hugged himself, much like she was doing. He could tell her about all the people he'd helped but to what end? She'd already made up her mind about who and what he was. A parasite. Her murderer. She would never want him, no matter what he did. His own mother thought he was a monster.

After a hard swallow, he found his voice again.

"When Mary was pregnant with Jesus, everyone called her a whore because she wasn't married. When she told them she carried God's baby, they all thought she was crazy. Even Joseph. Then when the baby was born, some crazy king sent murderers after her to kill the baby. It must have been awful for her." He turned and headed for the door. He paused at the doorway but didn't look back. "I forgive you, Mother. I hope someday you can forgive me."

He left then, with the intention of never returning to Murder House again. He spent the rest of the day in his room with the light off. He wasn't crying if nobody saw it.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter's title comes from Everclear's song by the same name. The content is largely inspired by Revelation and real life. I saw someone have a seizure in a store once, similar to what's above. And, sadly, similar to the above, the cashier had a response kind of like this. Frighteningly heartless.

At this point in the story I feel the need to point out the fact that Michael's the bad guy. Don't let his sob story distract you. It's a trap!

Next chapter: Crows and cults!


	8. Chapter 8 - For the Masses

**2028**

Life returned slowly to the neighborhood surrounding Murder House. The first living things to resettle the area were the crows. A handful came at first but within a few months their raucous caws could be heard for miles during the day. Flocks settled in trees and along rooftops, jostling for the best position.

Tate loved the birds. Most other people found them unsettling but not him. He loved that they sat all over the roof. He could open the window and reach right out and touch them. They weren't afraid of anything, not even him. They didn't particularly like him either: One snapped at his fingers when he tried to pet it. After a few days of his company, though, they ignored him unless he had food for them. They could eat other things, but they preferred meat. It had to be real, though. They didn't care about phantom food.

In the beginning the crows fed primarily on the carrion left behind. They devoured the truly dead first: The carcasses of dead beasts and people. Then, when those were nothing but bone, they went after the zombies. The putrid flesh had no effect on the demonic birds other than to temporarily sate their restless appetites for flesh. In a few months, there wasn't an undead thing left moving for miles in the foggy region.

By then, other living things had started to surface. Some migrated back once the zombie threat was gone. Others came from the fog, strange new breeds of florae and faunae never seen before. A whole new ecology was forming: Hell on earth.

Then people came, with the first arriving in the form of a group numbering nearly 100. The caravan consisted of families and individuals who had heard about Michael and believed him to be the reincarnation of Christ. They were led by a man who called himself Buck. Despite the steady decline of personal communication with the collapse of global capitalism, the man had managed to rally and organize the people into a convoy that traveled across four states to get to California. The group had been much bigger at the outset but they'd suffered losses on their way.

Arriving in the fog-shrouded suburb of Los Angeles was much the same as any other engulfed area they'd been through except for the extraordinary amount of birds that flocked around the immediate neighborhood. They were thickest around the Montgomery Mansion.

As soon as Buck recognized the imagery from his dreams—the crows and the house—he knew they were in the right place. He ordered his lieutenants to scout the area and it wasn't long before the travelers were settling into the abandoned homes in the immediate neighborhood.

Reclaiming LA required work and more bloodshed: The houses had to be cleared of wildlife and monsters, then the whole area had to be fortified. They built a wall that encompassed all of the settled homes plus several more, as they planned ahead for expansion and future municipal needs.

At the center of it all was Michael. Once he got past the awkwardness of having grownups reporting to him and asking him questions, the seventeen-year-old started to take an interest in the group. With Mother Constance and Father Jeremiah acting as his personal liaisons, he started to tend the flock, starting with healing those who needed it.

His healing came at a price, they'd discovered in the marketplace mass healing. He needed blood. He could handle one person but more than that made him ravenous, something he mistook at first for a desire for rare steak since he ate it by the fistfuls from the meat vendor between healings.

At home though, he quickly found drinking the blood directly from the plate was far more satisfying than the meat itself. After that, Constance always kept fresh containers of blood in the fridge. She insisted on warming it up, though, and seasoning it. Michael could've taken it straight from the Tupperware plain, but she needed to feel like she was cooking for him. The process made feel it less gruesome to her.

And the process to acquire the blood was monstrous, until someone in the settlement who owned a small herd of goats gave three of them to Michael. Father Jeremiah and Buck rigged up a machine that could bleed the animals regularly without killing them. And added benefit was two of them were nanny goats, so they had fresh milk as well. Jeremiah showed his insular roots by teaching the settlers how to make butter, cream, and cheese. Dependence on the market at the Hollywood Hills compound dropped more by the week as the people integrated their skills.

For many, it was beginning to look like the worst had passed. Despite the hardships the faithful cult had endured to make it there, being by their Savior's side was every bit the reward Buck had promised. They were safe and prospering in the fallout of the end of the world.

When his birthday came around, Michael's followers surprised him with a community celebration. There was lots of food that took whole days to prepare and they brought a whole pallet of gifts to Constance's house, decorated with flowers and colorful fabric ribbons. The gifts ranged from simple, to weird, to amazing.

His personal favorite was a card drawn by a child that showed a stick figure family, all smiling and covered in blood. The blood was from a big pink thing they apparently stabbed to death with their triangle knives, because it also had blood all over it and it had big X eyes. The card said: 'We killd a mostar for you HPPAY BDAY.! Cole age 7'.

Michael put the card in the corner of the mirror above his chest of drawers where he could see it every day.

...

 **2029**

The year of storms was rough on everyone, even the carrion crows. When it wasn't hailing, it was raining. The rain came in sheets of water and occasionally in acidic blood-red liquid that stung the flesh of anything it came in contact with. The stuff corroded paint on cars and buildings but had little effect on plants other than staining their leaves with red as they drank it from the soil. The crows sought shelter as best they could but many died.

One morning, Tate looked out his window and saw the street below was strewn with black bodies. An overnight freeze had brought golf-ball sized "blood" hail that caught the birds by surprise and killed them in droves. It was almost as bad as the aviary at the zoo. No. It was worse. He would have to clean them up unless he wanted to look out the window every morning and see them decaying.

It took a long time to clean up the dead birds; all day. He didn't ask for help and no one came to offer any. He moved them all to the garden in back and hid them behind the honeysuckle bush his mother had planted near the back fence. It was one of his personal hiding spots, where he used to go when he was a kid. He hadn't been behind the bush in years but it still looked mostly the same except for the brick-red leaves. The way the stem grew made an umbrella of free space beneath the vine-like branches where a boy could easily sit.

There were so many dead birds, Tate had to resort to hiding bodies behind the hollyhocks, too. Constance wouldn't like it but he figured she wouldn't see the garden anytime soon. By the time she did, hopefully they would be just bones.

He went back to his room after he finished moving the birds, with a quick stop by the bathroom to wash his hands. He was pretty sure he couldn't catch anything from them, but they weren't normal birds, so it couldn't hurt to be cautious. Not that it could have done much good, washing: The water had been turned off to the house for a while. The water he saw coming out of the spigot had no more substance than the hands it hit. He believed his hands were clean, though, and had to wipe them on the seat of his jeans to rid them of that residual damp feeling.

Tate flopped on his bed once he got to his room and wondered how many birds were left, or if any of them would survive. It made him really sad. He loved birds. He wasn't sure he wanted to exist someplace where there were no birds.

He lay there a while, feeling sorry for himself and the world, then he noticed a small sound. A creaky, squeaky sound. It was coming from somewhere near the window. Curious, he got up and closed in on the noise. It sounded like it was in the wall. He opened the window and could hear it louder. Sticking his head out, he saw some sticks behind the drainpipe, jutting out at a weird angle.

He crawled out onto the shingles and scooted closer. The sticks turned out to be part of a larger pile of debris, including grass, string, paper, and a few bones and feathers as well. It was a nest. Inside sat five baby black birds, bulgy-eyed and homely. They got quieter when they first saw Tate but when he didn't attack, they started making that weird sound again. They had really big mouths when they made the noises and they flapped their featherless wings unhappily.

Tate looked around but saw no adult bird anywhere nearby. He looked back to the nest and frowned. It was possible the mother was out gathering food; the babies were obviously hungry. But it was just as likely she was among the crows in the back yard, rotting in the bushes.

He didn't want to move the nest prematurely but he also didn't want another fit of bad weather to kill the babies. He couldn't stand the idea of putting their nest in the pile of dead birds. He made an executive decision and carefully peeled the nest out of the corner. One of the birds tried to bite him but he ignored it. Sheltering the ugly nest close to him, he went back inside with it.

Looking around his room, he found a spot where the sun shone most and bolstered the nest there with rolled up t-shirts. The baby birds sounded a lot louder inside. He needed to feed them but he knew they wouldn't find ghost food sustaining. He needed real food. He needed meat.

Fortunately, there was plenty of carrion in the back yard, behind the bushes.

...

 **December**

"I don't want her here!" Tate asserted.

He and his mother were in the great room, and their postures were almost identical: Folded arms, set jaw, stubborn stance.

"She needs a place to stay," Constance said. "And there's plenty of room here. It's too dangerous out there for her, on her own. She's converted to Jeremiah's faith. She'll be safe here, if _you_ leave her alone."

Tate's sulk darkened. "Why does she have to live _here_? There are other houses! What about your house?"

"We've got a full house already."

"You just have three people!" Tate objected, not about to be snowed. "We've got tons!"

"Billie Dean can tune out the lot of you... IF you let her," Constance dismissed. "She's stayin'. That's all there is to it. And you're gonna leave her alone. Understand?"

"I don't WANT her here!" Tate exploded. He wanted to hit something but anything he broke in the room would bring Chad down on him and that was the last thing he needed at the moment. Frustrated, he flopped on the sofa as hard as he could. "I don't like her! She hates me!"

"She doesn't hate you," Constance said.

She could tell he was near tears. The worst of the storm was over. She sat down next to him, primly tucking her knees together before reaching to sweep his bangs out of his eyes. He gave her a broody look .

"She does hate me," he sulked. A tear sneaked out but he hid it by pretending to scratch his face.

Of course his mother noticed. She hoped to take advantage of the moment. "She's just afraid of you, sweetheart. If you show her you're different now, she'll stop being scared. She can't do that if you act like this every time you see her!"

Tate folded his arms loosely and sulked some more. She was making sense and he didn't like that. "Will she leave me alone? And stay away from my part of the house?"

"Which part's that?"

"My bedroom," Tate said. He thought about it some, then decided: "I don't want her on the third floor at all. Okay? Nothing above the second floor."

Constance thought about it then gave a nod. All things considered, it was actually a reasonable request. "I'll tell her. I'm sure that'll suit her fine."

She wanted to hound him more about behaving himself but didn't want to risk undermining the rare truce they'd reached. So she just kissed him on the head and left it at that. A week later, Billie Dean did something she never would have thought possible: She called Murder House home.

...

 **2030 - Early spring**

Buck's group—now over 300 strong—combined forces to start building the First Coastal Church. They called themselves the Followers of Michael and they spent the better part of the next year laying the foundation and putting up walls. The process required a lot from everyone but produced a lot. They got a fresh water well dug and a large wood-fueled generator up and running. A man in the settlement had recruited a couple of people to work on solar power next. Civilization was slowly returning.

The church was finished close to Michael's nineteenth birthday so the congregation decided to wait and consecrate the building then. It would be a joint celebration.

Naturally, many wanted to help. The day before the big day, the place was alive with activity as people hung decorations. A man came to hang hand-woven tapestries while three ladies adorned the brand new pews with fabric ribbons in black and red and gold, the colors Michael selected. He and Constance were up in the front of the chapel, on the dais near the podium. A woman was there as well, stringing a garland of red flowers around the base.

"Next birthday, I'm going to wear the rubber suit," he told Constance as they watched the progress.

She looked at him, perplexed. "Is that thing still around? Why on Earth would you want to wear that?"

He shrugged and smiled, showing a dimple in his left cheek. "I want to do a Black Mass and it's black. It looks really wicked, too. And I want red banners with big black dragons on them."

"Black Mass." She leveled a flat look at him. "You want to do a Black Mass for your birthday, in a cursed bondage suit."

He raised his brows at her, sensing she didn't like the idea. "Yes. I'm going to be twenty, Mother Constance. I want it to be a special occasion."

She shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. We're not makin' a mockery of one of the only real powers out there. It's too dangerous. We're just getting on our feet here! We can't go throwin' it all away just because you want to have a night of fun."

Michael frowned. "I'm going to do Black Mass."

Constance laughed sharply. "No. You're not."

"Yes, I am!" he snapped, suddenly mad. "I'm a grownup now! I do what I want!"

She looked unimpressed. "You're actin' like a child."

"No, I'm not! I'm acting like I'm mad!"

"You're throwin' a tantrum in public," Constance rejected. "People are watching." She shot a meaningful look at the woman nearby who was hanging garland and taking discreet glances their way.

Infuriated, Michael stomped his foot and the whole dais shivered. The garland lady screamed and dropped the flowers. She grabbed at her face.

"I'm blind!" she cried. "I can't see! Help me!"

"There," Michael declared imperiously. "She's not watching anymore."

Other people in the chapel hurried to the woman, to try to help, but no one could do anything for her. Her eyes were gone as though they'd never been there. Constance looked from the distressed volunteer then back to Michael, unnerved.

"I'm having Black Mass for my birthday next year," the young man repeated, drawing himself up. "At Murder House. Come or don't. I don't care."

He waved a dismissive hand at the panicking woman and she shut up immediately, dead from a heart attack. He was tired of hearing her scream.

 **xxx**

...

* * *

Author's Note:

End Ep. 1 of the new Murder House season. Song cue: _Strangelove_ by Depeche Model, off of the "For the Masses" album. I'm thinking with this season, I'm just going to keep adding chapters to this story rather than starting a new one per Episode. It'd save me a lot of time on image manipulation and you guys wouldn't have to keep track of as many stories. If you have thoughts either way, let me know.

In Apocalypse, the grew Michael up overnight. I suspect it was their solution to wanting to work with an adult character without having to make such a huge leap of time. It was definitely work, figuring out what all happened in 12 years without actually writing it. I have extensive notes and lots of snippets that will probably surface later as stand-alone stories.

Starting next ep, things are slowing down to daily life. Michael's finally coming into his full power and is ready to assert his dominance. What has that got to do with Tate and the Harmons? Only everything.


	9. E2 Chapter 1 - A Whole New World Order

_Murder House: Armageddon - Episode 2 - A Whole New World Order_

* * *

 **2031**

The headboard slammed against the pale yellow wallpaper hard enough to leave lasting marks. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jeremiah knew he shouldn't be doing what he was doing but that voice of indiscretion got weaker each time he had sex with Constance Langdon.

The first time it had happened he had allowed himself to get drunk. It was soon after all the nonsense next door had settled and his nerves were still rattled by the forces he'd had to fight. Constance was keyed up as well and, after Michael was asleep, they'd gone through a bottle of gin together in no time. Vodka followed and that night he had his first carnal experience with a ghost.

It was a straight slope downward from there. As a member of the Order of Samael, he had already been wed by the church to his pre-ordained bride when he turned eighteen. Though he was abroad on his life's mission, he was still technically a married man and expected to abstain from physical relations. He had felt guilty at first. He'd spent hours in prayer and later had a strange dream about Samael and Lilith that left him both reassured and confused. He had the distinct impression his relationship with Constance was condoned by the Angel of Death but, if that was the case, then the religion surrounding his sect wasn't as concrete as he'd been brought up to believe.

Either way, the world was changing and, years later, Jeremiah only felt the rising peak of orgasm at the moment. The rough sex left them both panting afterward. Constance recovered with the help of a cigarette while Jeremiah got up to get a drink from the bathroom sink and wash up. When he finished, he returned to the bedroom where Constance had propped herself on the mountain of pillows she kept in her bed. Her hair was messy and her makeup was smeared. It leant her a vulnerability she didn't typically show. He was of a mind to return to bed when the doorbell rang downstairs.

It wasn't insanely late but random company was highly unusual, especially since the perma-fog had settled over the neighborhood. Jeremiah threw on some pants and tugged on an undershirt.

"I'll go see who it is," he said unnecessarily.

Constance exhaled smoke. "Don't be too long." When he was almost to the door, she added: "If it's one of those urchins from next door, tell them Michael's sleepin' and not to come back this late again."

He acknowledged her with a lift of his chin and headed out to the hall and downstairs. Her pushy ways didn't bother him. He only did what she said when it aligned with what he would do anyway and she knew it. It was a strange relationship they had developed.

When he got to the door he peeked out but only saw a shadowy silhouette so he turned on the porch light. The fog reflected the light, making it just as hard to see the person.

Jeremiah gave up and opened the door to a middle-aged man. "Can I help you?"

The man smiled. He was a good-looking fellow, dressed in a solid black suit of velvet: A Byron-esque outfit that would have been out of place in any era past the 1800's. His blond hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail but strangest of all was his lack of footwear.

"Good evening," he said, steepling his hands before himself in a manner that made his fingers point down. He spoke with a German accent. "I'm here to see Constance."

That was a surprise to Jeremiah. "Constance passed away." If this was someone from the woman's past, they needed to know that fact up front.

The blond man smiled. "Be that as it may, she is nevertheless here. May I come in?"

Jeremiah put on a friendly smile and offered his hand. "I'm Father Jeremiah. I'm a friend of Constance's. You are..?"

The man looked at the offered hand then ignored it, without losing the smile. "Getting impatient. Stand aside."

He lifted his hand but then hesitated when Constance came down the stairs in a flowing white chiffon robe and fuzzy mules.

"Jeremiah? What's takin' so damned—" She broke off when she saw the man in the doorway.

The man in black smiled bigger. "Constance. It has been too long."

Constance froze on the stairs as her thoughts collided. Then she hurried down, almost tripping on her heels. "No. No, no no!"

Jeremiah fell back in confusion as the woman rushed the door. She clutched her robe closed with one fist, the knuckles going white with the force she was gripping the fabric with.

"It's good to see you, too, liebe," the blond man said pleasantly.

She glared up at him, tensed like she was thinking about hitting him. "I don't know what you think you're doing here, but you can't make me go back with you. I'm dead! You've wasted your time. " Her chin lifted and a triumphant light came to her obsidian eyes.

"There is no need to go anywhere," he assured, speaking like he was talking to a small child. "Your sister is on her way as we speak."

Before Constance could process that, a long black car pulled up to the curb. Pietre glanced over his shoulder.

"Ah, speak of the devil," he said. "Here she is now."

Jeremiah moved in behind Constance and put a hand on her shoulder so she'd know he was ready to assist her if necessary. She brushed his fingers with hers but her eyes were on the ultra-luxury car. A young man got out of the front passenger's side. He was dressed in black as well and he went to the back passenger's door and opened it.

A woman's foot emerged and a shiny black patent leather stiletto touched down on the cracked sidewalk, black silk stockings shading fair skin. The rest of the woman soon followed, dressed as her companions in all black, though she wore a crepe cocktail dress that exposed a shocking amount of cleavage. Her long blonde hair was swept up and held in place with long ruby pins.

She sauntered up the walk and onto the porch like a queen. "Constance," she purred and took in the sight of her twin with a smug smirk.

"Fiona," Constance spat. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her sister gave a soft, disdainful laugh. "I hope you've enjoyed your little holiday but you've been resting long enough."

Constance looked instantly wary and retreated a step. "What're you talking about?"

Pietre took the opportunity and stepped inside the house. Constance backed up more, forcing Jeremiah to retreat as well. Fiona came in as well.

"You didn't really think running away would free you from your destiny, did you?" Fiona sneered.

"I can't do anything for the Coven," Constance insisted. "I'm dead!"

"I heard," Fiona said dismissively. "Went and got a house dropped on you. Guess we know which witch that makes _you_." She enjoyed her joke then got serious. "Naptime's over, little sister. We've got work to do."

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

They all gathered in the kitchen. Constance put on a pot of coffee since it was shaping up to be a long night. Jeremiah went and changed into something more appropriate for company. Constance didn't care about her appearance at the moment. Even if she changed her clothes, her hair and makeup were a disaster. There was no point in doing things halfway so she didn't bother at all.

Another car pulled up outside while the coffee brewed. Two more women came up the walk, rining the bell just in time for Jeremiah to answer it on his return. He could tell the two new arrivals were a part of the group in the kitchen. They had the same energy around them and their mode of dress was equally distinctive.

One, an older woman with eyes of two different hues, offered him a demure smile. The other woman was so bedecked in shawls, she looked like a fortune teller's laundry pile. Her long mane of bead-strung blonde hair only added to the impression.

"Hello," the first woman said. "I'm Delia. My mother Fiona should already be here."

"I'm Father Jeremiah," the priest said and extended his hand.

The other woman intercepted it, cover his with both of hers. "You've been kissed by the angels," she breathed in a thick Southern drawl. She pet the back of his hand, stroking firmly like she was trying to rub something off. "Are you their consort?"

"Consort?" Jeremiah squinted and retrieved his hand. "I suppose you could say that. Please. Follow me. They're in the kitchen."

He led the way to the crowded yellow room. There was an animated discussion in progress.

"Even if you can," Constance was saying. "I don't want you to. With things the way they are, I don't see any reason to. I'm better off the way I am! I won't consent to it!"

"Consent?" Fiona laughed. "Did I imply that I was asking you? I don't need your consent, little sister.

"Consent for what?" asked Jeremiah.

"They want to resurrect me," Constance answered, turning to him for support.

"Why do you want to resurrect her?" the priest looked to her twin.

Fiona resembled Constance but the two had entirely different demeanors. Where Constance was flowers and stormy weather, this woman was fire and ice. The energy she put off was darkly magnetic. Attractive to him in ways that transcended just the physical. He wasn't used to such a strong presence but he hid it well.

"She has a job to do," the witch said simply. She lit a long black cigarette and exhaled in his direction. "When we were born, the Grand Master of our Coven prophesied things for us both. He said I would be Supreme of the most influential Coven of our time and he said my sister here," she jabbed the cigarette in Constance's direction. "Would be the 'mother of men'."

"I did my part!" Constance insisted. Behind her, Misty Day started poking around in the cabinets. She glanced at the eclectic woman but had no time for her. "Michael's my grandson and he's the God-damned antichrist! What more do you want from me?"

Fiona took a long pull from her cigarette as Delia moved to rescue the coffee pot from the burner where it was overflowing. Coffee sizzled on the burner plate until she got a cup underneath it to catch the extra.

"Michael isn't the one the prophesy is about," Fiona said. "He's not of the God and Goddess. I'm sure you knew that. He's not even your child."

Constance started to bristle but the last part of that statement deflated her. "Tate was his father and he was—is my son."

"But he's dead too, is he not?" asked Pieter.

She nodded. "He died many years ago." She tried not to feel the stab of pain the words brought. She was dead too, after all. It simply wasn't all that crippling. Still, it hurt to say it. She had no time to wonder why.

"Could we resurrect him?" the blond warlock asked.

"We could try," Fiona said reluctantly. "Where's his body?"

Constance bit her lip. Then she reached for a cigarette. "Cremated."

"Can't resurrect from ashes," Misty Day noted. She had several herbs out of the spice rack and was smelling them.

"She's right," Fiona smirked. "It's why the damned Puritans used to burn us. Christ on a crutch, Stansi. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinkin' I didn't want grave robbers tampering with him!" Constance flared.

Delia poured several cups of coffee and put them on the table where anyone could take one. She found some sugar and milk as well and put those out.

"So much for that thought," said Fiona. Then she reached for one of the cups. "Where is your body? I want to get this done as soon as possible. We've already lost far too much ground these past years."

Constance folded her arms. "I'm not going to help you. I've done my part."

Her twin rolled her eyes. "Of course you're going to be difficult. I knew we should have just skipped all of this bullshit."

Pietre shrugged. "I like to be polite."

Fiona looked at Jeremiah then. "I don't suppose you'd be a dear and tell us where her body is?"

The priest cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I can't help you without discussing things with Miss Constance first, in private. I'm sure you understand."

The Supreme favored him a slightly impressed sneer, appreciating the show of loyalty if not his obstinance. "The hard way it is."

She got up then and headed for the door. She said nothing more before heading out. Her high heels clicked briskly on the front walk. The others followed after her.

"Thank you for your hospitality," said the barefoot man before leaving. "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again very soon."

"Sorry," said Cordelia with an apologetic smile. Then she left too.

Misty Day was the last to leave. She smelled strongly of the spices she had been messing with.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

I know it's been a bit longer between updates but I had a very good reason: I had finals in college. I'm happy to say I aced them! I scored a 95 on my Psych 101 overall grade. One might think I knew a thing or two about Psychology...

Up till this chapter, it's been backstory. We're cutting into the meat of the story now. I still haven't watched Apocalypse yet. Waiting till all the eps are available on Prime. My primary influences right now are old horror movies and Christmas horror. This will probably mean strangeness in another episode, for you guys. This one's already written so is safe from the Krampus.


	10. E2 Chapter 2 - Bodysnatchers

Constance poured herself a glass of vodka and put a couple of splashes of coffee on top. She had a hefty swig, then she started pacing. Her chiffon robe fluttered with her frantic movements.

"They're going to find my body," she muttered. "That bitch will find it! It's not like I hid it. Why would I? I was done with the Coven and they were done with me!"

During the silence that accompanied her having another large gulp of liquor, Jeremiah inserted: "Well, let's follow that train of thought a moment," he suggested, trying to calm her with logic. "Let's say they find your body. What then?"

She stopped pacing and folded an arm over her middle. She propped the other elbow on that arm, to keep her glass near her lips. "They'll try to resurrect me."

"Even if that could be done, which I strongly doubt," said the priest. "Would it be such a bad thing?"

She stared at him. "Go back to agin' and dying all over again?" She laughed bitterly. "No thank you. I don't want to know what happens to a soul that dies in this dark world now. I like my freedom."

Father Jeremiah settled at the table. He added some cream to one of the cups of coffee and stirred it in before having a sip. "I really don't think it's going to be an issue but if you want... I'll move your body."

She tipped her head. Then a small smile tickled her lips. "Why, Jeremiah. You are a saint among men."

He smiled a dry smile. "Hardly."

—

The practicalities of moving the body were more cumbersome than the priest anticipated. He went on foot, armed with a katana and a rucksack full of the things he might need once he got to the graveyard. The Japanese sword was a shopping mall find that had appealed to his inner child but proven very useful. It was sharp enough to cleave through a pig, in the hands of a strong man. It worked equally well on fog monsters.

Leaving the house was a creepy experience. Jeremiah felt isolated yet paranoid about being followed. He didn't trust the witches not to watch the house so he left by the back way without a light. He moved quickly and with purpose, on high alert.

The trip was entirely uneventful. Jeremiah didn't even see a carrion on bird. The foggy city was dead.

The cemetery gates were wide open. Weeds and grass had grown high around the wheeled iron gates, proof of how long they had been inactive. Jeremiah passed them and made his way toward the area where the caretaker's shed was. He kept off the path both because the gravel made noise underfoot and because it was more visible. There were plenty of hedges and statuary to blend with off the marked roadway.

When he got to the shed he found it was chained shut. He gave the padlock an experimental tug but it held fast. Jeremiah unshouldered the pack and pulled out a small set of bolt cutters. He had to work on the chain link a bit but it gave eventually. He tugged the lock free and dropped it on the ground. He dropped the bolt cutters back in the bag and pulled out a flashlight. Once he had the bag zipped again, he shouldered it and then opened one of the large double doors he'd just unlocked.

He entered cautiously, alert for whatever might ambush him. There was silence inside. The air was stale and smelled of petrol. There was a riding mower in there and a Bobcat. There was also a backhoe, which is what he was looking for. He pushed open the other door and then went over to the large vehicle. He climbed up into the driver's seat and dug around until he found the keys. Soon he had the thing cranked up and running.

After a couple of false starts he figured out how to get the backhoe moving, if slow and jerky. He killed several bushes on his way to Constance's headstone but managed to avoid the other grave markers. It took more trial and error to figure out how to operate the scoop portion of the big machine. When he was finally done digging up the grave it was obvious an amateur had done the job but the important thing was: The coffin was unearthed.

Next came the part Jeremiah was really not looking forward to. He was strong but he couldn't haul a loaded coffin all the way home. He had to bust the ornate thing open. Constance had been embalmed but several years underground had taken its toll. The desiccated corpse was light and he treated her with as much dignity as he could while hauling her out of the torn up hole in the ground.

Once he had her, he headed for home as quickly as he could. He only encountered a lone feral housecat on his way, and it hissed at him and bolted off into the fog when it saw him. The rest of the trip back to Murder House was blessedly uneventful.

Tate was ready and right near the door when the priest knocked. Constance had already been over earlier to let her son know what to do when Father Jeremiah arrived, so he knew what to expect. His instructions were to hide the body. Hide it good so no mortal could find it.

Fortunately Tate had just the spot. He stashed the black bag where he put Violet's body. Crouching there in the crawlway after arranging the bag containing his mother's body alongside Violet's skeleton, he thought it was kind of appropriate, having both of them together. He found himself wishing he had Mrs. Nora's body too. They would look very nice together, all pearly bones and smiles. He could dress them in their favorite kinds of clothes.

It occurred to him that others might find that weird. So he left the bodies as they were for the time being, but he made a mental note to ask Father Jeremiah later if the guy would dig up Nora Montgomery's body for him.

...

While the other coven members went to secure a location to sleep for the night, Misty Day was drawn to the large bonfire down the road that lit a dirt lot where Buck's group had set up their communal meeting area. There were many lean-to pavilions crafted from sheets gathered from the nearby houses. The layers of multicolored cloth made her think of caravan encampments.

As she drew closer she could hear someone playing a guitar. The faint notes in the distance and the smoke from the bonfire only added to the magical effect for the witch. She pulled her shawls tighter against the cold and moved quicker in the direction of the campsite. When she got there she saw two people sitting in lawn chairs near the fire. There was a lean-to at their backs, keeping the wind off them and the fire.

The man, who was in his early 60s, was dressed in hunter's wear: A wool-lined leather coat and thick cargo pants stuffed into hiking boots. He also had a warm hunter's cap on with the flaps down over his ears. The woman who sat next to him looked several years older. She had her lower half stuffed into a sleeping bag and wore an old quilted ski parka. She was playing the acoustic guitar. The gloves she wore were fingerless, allowing her to manage the frets and stay warm. She didn't stop playing when Misty drew near but she did play quieter.

"Howdy, stranger," the man greeted her.

Misty Day smiled. "Hello. I'm Misty Day. Who are you?"

"Name's Buck," the man said. "This here's Aileen. You come in with those folks in the fancy cars?"

She nodded and moved closer to the fire. Her front warmed up. "They're my family."

Buck smiled big. "Well, you're in good company, Misty. Here, we care a lot about family."

Misty liked the sound of that. "You have kids?"

He laughed. It was a warm, good-natured laugh. "I had kids in my time but now, no. I'm too old. Aileen here's not my missus either. No. We're a... congregation. A group of folks who came here to be close to Michael. He's the way to the new world and we're ready to help him build it."

Misty Day turned so her back was exposed to the large fire. "I haven't met him yet. If he is who the prophesies say—"

"Oh, he is!" Buck insisted, with the conviction of a true believer. "I've seen him perform miracles. He even came back from the dead!"

Misty hugged her shawls closer. Her front was getting cold but she didn't want to turn away from the chatty fellow. The woman beside him started a new song.

"Came back from the dead?"

Buck nodded. "Sure did. A crazy man cut his throat. He bled out in the arms of Mother Constance. Hundreds of people saw it. He came back to life in the hospital without a wound on him. After he'd been declared dead by the doctors."

The witch tipped her head and her large gold earrings jingled softly under her wild blonde mane. "He must be quite gifted," she breathed. It had never occurred to her that she might meet another person who'd spontaneously resurrected.

"Can... he heal people?" she asked.

Buck smiled and nodded. "Sure can. He's healed whole crowds." He reached for his local draft beer. It was a nameless brew in a recycled bottle.

Misty Day finally turned to face the fire. She held one hand out to the flames while the other gripped her layers of shawls. "Whole crowds," she murmured, gazing into the bonfire. "I hope I can meet him tomorrow."

"He's a very busy man," said Buck. "But I'm sure he's got a few minutes for you, Misty. I'm the chief religious leader here. I see him regularly. I'll see if I can get a meeting set up."

She smiled at his attempt to be helpful. "That's all right. I know his grandmother."

The fellow's thick brows arched up briefly. "Really now? Well. Isn't that something." He gave her closer study then. "Where do you come from, if you don't mind my asking?"

"New Orleans," she replied without reservation.

"You've come a long way," said Buck.

The guitar woman started to play an old Creedence Clearwater Revival song. A log in the fire gave a big crack and split, throwing off a flare of bright red sparks before settling back down again.

Misty gazed into the bonfire, lulled by the golden-red dancing flames. "Still a long way to go yet." She turned back to him again with a sweet smile. "Do you think I could maybe stay here? With you kind people? I don't want to impose but your camp here is so nice. Reminds me of home."

"Wouldn't be an imposition, Misty," Buck said. "We take in folks all the time. We're hoping with enough people, we'll make this a real town again. Maybe not like it used to be..."

"Better," the woman next to him chimed in with conviction.

Considering it was the only word Aileen had said the whole time, Misty Day believed in that conviction. "Better," she smiled.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I know 'unshouldered' isn't a word, technically, but I like it a lot. It should be a word. So I kept it in this chapter. Take that, Websters. Also: All heavy machinery (bulldozers, ditch witches, backhoes) are always left with their keys in them somewhere. A leasing place I worked for said it was so the teamsters wouldn't accidentally take 'em home and lose them.

Buck's name is derived from two sources: Sheriff Lucas Buck from "American Gothic" and a play on the name of the leader of the Heaven's Gate cult, Doe. Buck. Bad, I know, but so's the plan to drink poison in order to hitch a ride on a comet.

Next time: The witches make their move.


	11. E2 Chapter 3 - Habeas Corpus

The next morning, before the crows even started to caw, there was a pounding at the front door of the Montgomery Mansion. Tate had already warned all the ghosts he was on speaking terms with not to open the door if strangers came. He certainly wasn't going to go anywhere near the door. He remembered the fairy tales. When witches came to your door, you didn't answer. If you did, either you got turned into a beast or you'd get eaten. Neither of those was on his list of things he wanted to do.

The pounding stopped for a moment then resumed with double force. An ordinary door would have fallen in under such an assault but the oak barrier merely rattled in its frame.

"Little pigs, little pigs," Pietre said with great amusement. He hadn't met a building that had given him such a challenge in a long time. "Let me IN."

On the last word he channeled his energy into the symbol he made with his hands. The door shuddered and flew inward, banging against the far wall. It tried to swing shut again but the blond man put himself in its path. The whole house creaked with the force of resistance. Fiona stepped into the entryway past him.

The interior of the house was well-appointed and clean but dead. Very dead.

"Wow," said the younger witch, Desiree, as she came in last. "There are so many!"

The frizzy-haired psychic referred to all the spirits in the house. She could sense them even though she couldn't see them.

"Where's the body?"

"I don't know yet," Desiree said, her Louisiana accent stretching her words with her impatience. "It's a big house."

"We're at risk every minute we're in this place," said Fiona sternly. "Focus on your job so we can get out of here."

The mulatto girl had never seen the Supreme so close to nervous before. That was more intimidating than the woman's glare, which was saying something. The younger woman nodded and put her full concentration into sensing for dead tissue. She found a surprising amount of it.

"Holy cow!" she exclaimed. "Did they do abortions here?" She caught Fiona's insistent stare and looked chagrined. Then she spotted what she was searching for. "I found her. She's in the wall upstairs."

"Well, let's go haul her dusty bones out," said Fiona. "I'm not getting any younger."

The three went upstairs, all the way up to the attic. They were nearly to the false panel that led to the crawlspace when Tate appeared before them. He wore his favorite black and green striped sweater for the occasion since he was meeting family for the first time.

"If you're looking for the antique store," he quipped. "It went out of business two years ago."

"We're here for Constance's body," Fiona said, unimpressed with his humor.

So much for playtime. "I'm afraid I can't let you have her. See, she's my mother. If I let you have her body, then I have to put up with her bitching at me and I really don't want that."

"Mother?" Fiona looked the ghost boy over with new appreciation. "Well, I'll be damned." She gave a short laugh then folded her arms. "Move aside, my dear nephew, or go fetch her bones for me. Either way, I'm leaving this house with her body."

Tate braced himself. He hadn't wanted a fight but if she insisted, he was ready. "I can't let you do that."

Tired of the stalling, Fiona flicked her hand at the boy. He should have been moved by the energy she released with the gesture, or else disapparated. He didn't move.

"I really don't want to hurt you," Tate said, using his Reasonable voice. It was one Dr. Harmon had helped him polish. "Why do you want her body, anyway?"

"We're going to resurrect your mother," Pietre provided.

That got Tate. "Why?" he blurted. Then, realizing how bad that sounded, he added: "I mean." But he got hung again. "Why?"

Fiona shot Pietre a withering look. Then, to her nephew: "She has a part to play in a prophecy as yet to be fulfilled. And you're standing in the way of it. Move aside."

Pietre took a turn then and tried to banish the specter. It was a cantrip he'd used many times over the centuries, so it was a genuine surprise to him when it didn't work on Tate. He didn't have time to rally another plan as the spirit lunged at him then, losing form briefly with the rapidity of his motion.

It had been years since the violent ghost wind had moved through Tate and he relished it. He could feel Thaddeus with him, ravening for the man's blood. The sharp teeth he borrowed from his phantom half-brother tore into the blond warlock's shoulder, narrowly missing his jugular. The man cried out. Fiona shouted something and she and the younger woman with her started chanting in unison.

Agony lanced through Tate like a lightning bolt and he was flung to the side, separated from the Infantata and left groaning on the floor, weakened and in pain.

"Get in there!" Fiona commanded Desiree. "I'll handle this!"

The younger witch scrambled to the wall and frantically started beating on it, trying to figure out how to open it. Meanwhile, Fiona went to her fallen comrade and eyed his injury. He clutched at his bleeding shoulder. It was a nasty wound that would require attention fast. He forced himself to get to his feet. He didn't expect Fiona to offer to help, which was good because she didn't.

The younger witch finally got the panel open and peeked inside. "Lux," she murmured and a tiny spot of light appeared behind her.

Carefully she climbed into the walls of the house, unsettled by the experience of crawling through such a small space. The golden light behind her threw weird shadows as she moved. She almost fell when the chute she was crawling through suddenly gave way to an open space. Looking down, she saw two bodies below, a skeleton and a severely withered corpse.

"Shit," she cursed. She couldn't tell which one was the right one. She thought about asking Fiona but she knew the woman had no patience for indecision. But the girl didn't want to bring the wrong body back. "Shit!"

In the end she loaded them both into a body bag she found off to the side. They didn't weigh as much as a fresh body did; not by a long shot. Two combined almost made the weight of one full adult the size she'd moved before. Once she had them both zipped up, she quickly tugged the bag back to the attic.

She climbed back out and dragged the bag after. She saw her companions but not the ghost boy.

"Where'd he go?"

"He faded out," said Fiona. "That spell we hit him with will have him licking his wounds for another hour at least."

"Let's not dally, regardless," said Pietre. He was looking paler than normal as blood loss took its toll.

Fiona led the way back down, with the injured warlock following. Desiree was stuck hauling the bodies back to the hotel.

...

As soon as he had the strength, Tate went to his mother's house. He still hurt all over, like when he used to run track and coach would make him run laps for not changing out. But the pain didn't matter to him nearly as much as what had happened.

"Mama!" he hollered as he burst into the house. He didn't bother with the bell. This was too important. "They got all the bones, Mama!"

Constance, Michael, and Jeremiah were all in the kitchen and collectively rose. The teen rushed in, frantic.

"There were three of them," he blurted, tears in his eyes. "And one was Aunt Fiona and they hit me with some sort of thing and they took your bones and they took Violet's bones too!"

Constance winced at his rapid rattle of information. "Slow down! They got both of our bodies? How?"

Tate looked from person to person then made a contrite face. "I put you both in the same place. I thought it would be safe, but they were too strong."

"Why do they want Violet's body?" asked Michael.

"They don't," Tate said. "They want Constance's. I guess they took both to be sure they got all of the right bones? I don't know. What if they try to resurrect her?"

"We need to find them," Father Jeremiah said. "Do you know which direction they headed?"

Tate shook his head. "They did something to me. It hurt. Bad. I couldn't move. By the time I could, they were gone."

Michael canted his head to one side, thinking. The Dragon had said the world belonged to him. If that was true, there ought to be something he could do to find the witches. The idea came on him immediately and, frowning in concentration, he pushed his thoughts outward to the carrion crows that still roosted in the area. There weren't the droves there used to be, but there were still several dozen that he could locate. Their life rhythms were different than anything else nearby so he was able to home in on them easily.

Once he had them, he sensed out their eyes and their muscles. Then he took flight. It was disorienting at first, flying in all directions at once without actually moving. He had to adjust his thinking. It was sort of like panning out on Google maps, back when it was still accessible. He used to play with that a lot, to explore the world. Once he'd expanded his concept of directional perception, he was better able to see what the birds were seeing.

The foggy streets spread out below him, rushing by. He couldn't see who he was looking for at first but soon he detected them, traveling east in a long black car. He drew the whole flock together to pursue them. It wasn't subtle but he wasn't trying to hide what he was doing. He didn't care if they knew someone was watching them. All that mattered to him was where they were going.

The dark vehicle below sped up. They couldn't lose the crows, though, who kept up effortlessly. Desiree watched the flock from the passenger's seat while Fiona drove. Pietre was in back, laying down and trying to keep pressure on his wound.

"They're definitely following us," the girl told the Supreme.

"No shit," Fiona snarled. She didn't need the updates.

She floored it and tried to lose the pestiferous flock but after a couple of blocks it was obvious they weren't going to be able to lose the crows. She would have kept driving around but she couldn't count on the possessed creatures to lose stamina and Pietre needed to be someplace safe where he could heal.

Fiona muttered a curse under her breath then headed for the hotel. The old three-story structure used to be a small jail before it was turned into a tourist destination. The back side had a garage of sorts where inmates were once delivered like cargo. There was no door on it now but the birds banked off and didn't follow the car in, regardless. Instead they circled up and around the building, taking it all in.

"Come on!" Fiona barked at the younger witch and hopped out herself. "Get the bodies!"

They hurried to the trunk where the Superior popped open the trunk with the key fob. Pietre got himself inside while Desiree pulled the body bag out. Fiona closed the trunk then, after a quick glance outside, hurried inside as well. She bolted the door behind them.

—

"They went inside a building outside the wall," Michael reported. His words were distant as he was focusing on what he was seeing and piloting the birds as well. "The side says... Bradford Hotel."

"Let's go," said Constance.

"Wait," said Father Jeremiah. "We need a plan first."

"We have a plan!" she exclaimed. She grabbed her purse. "We get my body back!"

"And Violet's," Tate threw in. He followed his mother to the door.

Michael settled the birds to roost all around the building. He released a few to return home in case he needed them for something else. Then he swayed, suddenly dizzy. Father Jeremiah steadied him.

"I'm okay," Michael said. He was already beginning to feel better. Tired, but better. "Let's go."

"And do what?" Jeremiah said, determined to make sense. He followed the rest of them to the car. "Demand they give her body back?"

"And Violet's!" Tate insisted, not liking that nobody seemed to be remembering that.

He got in the back seat. He expected Michael to join him but the other boy got in the front with Constance. Father Jeremiah got in back with Tate, though he crowded more toward the center.

"That's exactly what we're going to do," said Constance with grim determination. She started the car and threw it into gear. "And if that bitch Fiona doesn't give it to me, I'll damn well take it."

—

The car idled just beyond the gates to the settled portion of the foggy zone. The fog terminated a few feet ahead, thinning out to show clear roads ahead. That was a problem. The place they were going was beyond the fog.

"If we keep going," the priest said. "Constance and Tate will be sent back home. Either they get out," he said to Michael, who was seated diagonally across from him in the back seat. "Or we do."

"You're not takin' him up there by yourself," Constance objected.

"I have to save Violet!" Tate interjected.

"We'll be fine," Father Jeremiah reassured.

Considering the boy had resurrected himself, Constance wasn't terribly worried. She knew the priest could look out for himself as well. What she really wanted was to claw her sister's eyes out but that was an impossibility at present.

"Well," she sighed. "You may as well take over drivin'. I don't want to walk back home so we'll just ride till..." She circled a hand, not wanting to spell out how she and her ghost son would be transported back to the haunted property.

"No!" Tate objected louder. Tears leaked out. "I want to save Violet!"

She turned in the car and shot him a Look. "Quit hollering. We can hear you just fine. There's nothin' you and I can do now. Michael and Father Jeremiah have to handle this, whether we like it or not."

He scowled at her but he knew she was right. He smudged his eyes with both hands then looked away out the window. He muttered something into his flannel but the only part that made it out was: "..better save Violet."

Jeremiah caught Constance's glance his way and he got out of the car. He traded seats with her then, once they were settled again, he put the car in gear. A few moments later, he and Michael were alone.

* * *

Author's Note:

Since someone asked, I thought I'd clarify for the record: Fiona (and Pietre) haven't aged since my Coven fic. Misty Day has. She looks decent for her age, under all the shawls, but definitely older.

I've got a super-busy couple of weeks coming up so I thought I'd post this next chapter before things got wild. I've only given it a first-pass edit so please forgive any issues with it. I'll tidy it up later after the new year. I hope you guys stay safe and have a great one. See you next year!

Next time: Michael meets Fiona while Tate mopes with his mom. I'd say mirror light, mirror dark but... there's only darkness here.


	12. E2 Chapter 4 - Goode and Evil

Father Jeremiah put the car into park and he and Michael got out. The building itself wasn't much to look at: Three stories, it was a blocky rectangle. It looked every bit like the penal institution it used to be. The topmost windows still had bars on them.

With the crows circling and the dark clouds above, it was a forbidding sight and a stark reminder to the man that they were living in the end days. He felt a chill run through him and he wished he'd thought to grab one of his prayer books. In its absence, he reached for the pendant of Samael that he always wore. The metal pulsed warmly between his fingers, like a calm heartbeat. The vibration of the rhythm settled him and gave him confidence.

Michael led the way, already halfway to the entrance when Jeremiah got to the front walkway. He hurried to catch up to his ward, alert for anything. "We should be careful," he cautioned.

The boy waited for him to catch up then tried one of the broad wooden doors. It swung open easily.

"I guess they want us to come in," said Michael with a smile.

"I don't think that's a good thing," cautioned the priest.

They went inside. The interior foyer opened up wide and high, lit only with fire and candlelight. The room smelled of herbs and Obsession perfume. They'd only gone a few steps when the heavy doors behind them shut and locked. Jeremiah put a hand on Michael's back, but the boy stepped away from him, heading toward the central fire pit and the figure in black seated near it, without so much as a glance back.

"Aunt Fiona," Michael said.

She was perched elegantly in the chair, a black cigarette trailing smoke from the end of a long stem filter. She was dressed for business in a crisp crepe pantsuit and witchy pumps. There were several other people scattered about the lobby, hanging back in the shadows and dressed in black as well. Somewhere in the distance there was a low thrumming sound, some kind of heavy machinery running despite the lack of public electricity in the area. Jeremiah reckoned the witches somehow managed to get the boiler for the place running. If so, that meant they likely had hot running water. A genuine luxury in these times.

The blonde woman cocked a brow, unused to being called by a familial term other than 'sister'. Hearing it from the son of Hell was a unique experience. "Michael." She looked him over, taking in his physical presence as well as his astral signature. He was a good-looking boy, and a powerhouse. Not that she couldn't handle him here, in her lair, but he could be a serious threat if not dealt with properly. It was like being visited by a living incarnation of Murder House.

He was assessing her, too. Trying to, anyway. She was ready for him, though, and had her defenses up. He couldn't feel her organs or anything he could latch onto. She was more like a ghost than a ghost, to his immature senses. What he _could_ feel was the strength of her energy. It radiated off of her like heat from an open oven. He sensed that was just a latent hint of her power. Full blast, he suspected that energy could melt something. Possibly him. It fascinated him.

"I want the bodies you took," he said simply.

Fiona gave a short laugh at his demand. "My sister is right where she belongs." She paused, fine brows pinching. "Did she tell you about us?"

Michael frowned. He glanced at Father Jeremiah, who gave a little shrug. The teen looked back to the blonde woman. "No."

She laughed, short and derisive. "Figures." She put out her cigarette and rose. In her stilettos, she was taller than Michael. "Humor your Auntie: Let me tell you about this side of your family. Then we'll talk about what should happen to Constance's body."

Michael thought about it. He almost looked at the priest again, but Jeremiah seemed lost on this one and the teen wanted to make a strong show. So he kept his eyes locked on hers. "Sure. But I'll know if you're lying."

She laughed again. It was a prettier sound than the laugh she made before. "Oh, I have nothing to lie about. The truth is better than _anything_ you'd care to make up. Let's move over to the couches and get comfortable. This is gonna take a while. Do you want a drink?"

...

Tate was in a terrible state. As soon as he reappeared at Murder House, he went to find his mother. It wasn't that he thought she could do anything about the situation. It's just where his mind went in his distress. He found her downstairs, in the kitchen, rummaging through Chad's liquor supply.

"Goddamned queen never keeps a decent bottle of rum around," she muttered as she pawed through the half-empty bottles of chablis and cabernet wines.

"There's some Fireball in the cabinet above the fridge," said Tate as he trudged into the room. He tugged his sweater sleeves down over his fingers and one poked through a new hole it discovered there.

Constance straightened and looked at her son, surprised by his voluntary helpfulness. Then she saw the look on his face and braced herself. She headed to the cabinet and, tugging it open, peeked inside. There were a few more bottles up there and she pushed them around, looking at labels. She turned her nose up at the Goldschlager but grabbed the Fireball and what was left of a bottle of Cointreau.

"What if they don't bring both of you back?" Tate said as she poured herself a mixed drink in a tall glass from both bottles. "What if they don't come back?"

"What if?" she deflected, grabbing a spoon out of the drawer. She stirred the alcohol briskly.

Tate didn't like that answer. He drifted closer to the central island where she was making her drink. "What're we going to do?"

"What can we do? Sit and wait. Like we always do." Constance took a hefty swig from the glass and sighed in masochistic relief as the booze scalded her throat.

Tate liked that answer even less. "I don't want to wait! Mama, what if—"

Constance reached over and put her fingers over his lips. It wasn't a forceful gesture but he hushed anyway and sulked at her. A tear slipped out and she lightly brushed it off his cheek.

"You can sit here and worry till you're sick about 'what if's or you can find somethin' to do to take your mind off of it till whatever happens... happens." That was as reasonable as she was going to be about the matter.

His lower lip trembled a little when he spoke next. "Should I tell Violet?"

Constance gave a short laugh and had another gulp from her glass. "That's up to you. There's nothin' she's gonna be able to about it either but she might want to know. Me, I wish I didn't know." She shook her head and just downed more of her cocktail.

He chewed on a cuticle and the problem. He had no idea how to tell Violet without upsetting her and he wasn't even sure he should tell her.

"Can they resurrect people?"

"I don't know," his mother admitted. "I've heard it's possible, in theory, but I've never actually seen such a thing. But then, before I lived here, there was a lot I'd never seen."

Tate hauled himself up onto a bar stool and folded his arms on the edge of the island. He sank into the arm pile miserably and watched his mother drink. He thought about asking for some but even if she said yes, which she wouldn't, Nora would have a fit. He felt even sorrier for himself and another hot tear escaped. This one slipped down his nose and disappeared into the sleeve of his striped sweater.

"I fucked up."

Constance sighed softly and reached over to pet his hair back from his forehead. It crept right back down again. "You took on my sister and a warlock who's over one hundred years old," she said. "Either one would be a handful."

"That guy was over a hundred?" Tate boggled, momentarily surprised out of his funk. "He looks, like, forty."

His mother had another belt from the glass, nearly draining it. "Yeah. Not bad, hm? And my sister." Those last words were a bitter barb. "She must have pulled a trick from his book. She looks almost as young as I do! She should look the hag she is."

Over the years, Constance had steadily youthened herself till she'd reclaimed the aspect she'd had in her prime. No one remarked on it any more than they would an older woman applying makeup to hide her age but everyone knew it was as much a visage as Moira's old lady seeming. Her resentment of her twin's ability to avoid old age was real, though.

Tate sank back into his folded arms. "Why does she want to bring you back to life anyway?"

She shot him a sidelong look. "You don't like the idea?"

He frowned. "No. You're better this way. Evolved. Nobody can hurt you. I mean, you're stuck in the foggy areas but the whole world's going to be foggy eventually. That's what Michael's doing, right? He's making this our world. So... Why would you want to go back? People who die again in the fog don't stay. I never saw one stay."

Constance's lips tugged in a thin line and she downed the last of her drink. Normally she could dismiss her son's paranoid ramblings but he was making too much sense. Which meant she needed more alcohol. So she filled the glass again, emptying both bottles.

"She wants to bring me back so the coven's prophecy can be satisfied," she said, frowning into the glass as she stirred. "She wants me to have a baby."

Tate laughed. He tried to stop himself but the more he thought about it, the funnier it struck him. He could feel his mother's glare but he couldn't help the manic reaction. "Holy shit. She's nuts!"

"Yes," Constance said bitterly. "She is. She's also a determined bitch. But so am I."

* * *

Author's Note:

Happy New Year! Or Horror New Year!

So what do you think? Is Violet better off not knowing she might be resurrected? Or is that something she should be told?

Next time: We find out what'll become of the stolen bodies.


	13. E2 Chapter 5 - Promises, Broken & Not

It was more than an hour before the car finally pulled up outside. Tate had spent the entire time in his mother's company, fretting and watching her attempt to get drunk. The moment the car arrived, he was out the front door and barreling down the front walkway. Constance followed with more dignity. Tate reached the car as the priest was getting out.

"Did you get them?" Tate asked anxiously as Michael got out on the other side of the car.

"Yes," said Father Jeremiah. Despite the good news, he didn't look elated. "They're in the back seat."

Tate tugged open the nearest back door on the car and stuck his head in. Both bodies were wrapped in hotel sheets.

"Which is which?"

"Constance is on top," said the priest.

The woman was already opening the other side of the car. "Don't just stand there!" she snapped at her son. "Take me into the house."

He wasn't sure which house she meant, so he decided for himself. Lifting both bodies, he headed for Murder House. Constance almost stopped him but decided she didn't want her corpse littering up the house next door. Just the thought of sleeping in the same place as her own bones creeped her out no end. She lit a cigarette and looked to the priest.

"Well?" she prompted as they all followed Tate inside. "What did you have to do? I know she didn't just give those over to you out of the goodness of her heart."

"Aunt Fiona wants to teach me," Michael supplied.

"Aunt?" Constance said, pausing on her way to the kitchen to look at the teen. She gave a short laugh. "Great Aunt is more like it. What's she want to teach you that you don't already know?"

Michael and Jeremiah followed her into the kitchen. Michael sat down at the island while the priest started digging around in the refrigerator. He wasn't particularly hungry; he just didn't want to be the messenger on this one.

"Lots of things," Michael said defensively. "She's a witch, Mother Constance. The head witch. They call her—"

"Supreme, yes, I know," Constance dismissed. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. "If she's so God-damned Supreme, I'd like to see her power up this settlement. The church is puttin' a huge strain on the generator and gas is gettin' scarce."

Michael rolled his eyes, not interested in the mechanics of running a town. "I'll figure something out," he said, to shut her up about it. "Why didn't you tell me we were witches?"

"You're not a witch," Constance denied. She paused fussing with the tea pot to look at him. "You're far more special than that. What Fiona does is parlor trickery by comparison. She can't teach you anything."

"She can teach me history," he countered. "I want to know about the witches! Who they are and what they want. Did you know they have a prophecy about me too?" He looked over at Father Jeremiah to include him in the question. "They do. And I want to know what it is. I think it's important."

Jeremiah set the mustard down next to the rest of the sandwich stuff he'd been amassing on the counter. "Of course you should hear it," he supported, earning a black look from Constance that he tuned out. "And anything else they have to say that you want to know."

"I think it's a foolish idea," Constance groused, turning back to her tea. "That woman is nothing but trouble. A solid gold bitch, through and through."

"I guess I'll find out for myself," Michael said. "Tomorrow."

...

Tate put Violet's body back in the crawlspace, only this time he wrapped her up in a sheet, one Chad's super-soft jersey sheets. Not satisfied with the bundle, he put some fresh-picked hollyhocks from the garden on her chest. He was pretty sure she wouldn't mind that the flowers grew out of dead crows. If anything she might like the macabre detail, so he decided he'd go scavenge some feathers for her as well, adding those to the pile.

He considered taking his mother's body down to Dr. Charles but there was too big a chance the man would cut her up. Moira suggested they put her in a shallow grave out back when she tired of Tate moving the body from room to room.

He couldn't decide what he wanted to do with her but the yard was definitely out of the question. He finally took her up to the attic. As he carefully stowed her in a trunk and covered her with a cashmere blanket, he told Beau: "This is Mama's body. It's sleeping while her ghost does things. She's evolved, like us, but she kept her body just in case. You have to keep her safe, okay? Nobody except us and her can touch her, okay?"

Beauregard drooled and nodded, bouncing with enthusiasm. "Mama!" he cheered.

Beau liked the idea of getting to have his mother all to himself, even if it was just the sleeping part. He liked that part of Constance best because that part didn't yell or hit. He watched as Tate tucked the trunk into the corner behind Beau's bed on the floor.

"Okay. There she is. Keep her safe," he reminded.

Tate had every confidence that his older brother would do a better job of caring for the body than he had. Beau would be her best protector ever.

...

The next few days, Michael traveled out to visit the Coven at the Esplanade Hotel. Father Jeremiah went with him, even though he was left sitting in the lobby while his ward and Fiona went off alone together. He liked to be within range of calling, should the young man need him.

In the suite she'd staked out as her own, Fiona educated her grand-nephew about witches and warlocks, and their role in the universe as some of the most powerful beings on the planet. While they conversed about ancient religions and powers, Jeremiah spent his time catching up on his reading. One particular afternoon he had a letter with him instead of his usual nonfiction fare. The message had arrived that morning, delivered by a courier who had been sent all the way from Utah to deliver it.

Jeremiah had read it at the time but brought it with him to the daily meeting without sharing it with anyone, so he could go over it again. He had been the only one to witness its arrival, which bought him some time to decide what he should do about it.

The missive itself was simple, written by the head of the compound where he had grown up. It informed him that his performance as a missionary abroad was unsatisfactory and a tribunal of elders would be arriving within the week to dispense judgment.

It also said his wife, Evangelina, would be coming with them.

...

From birth, Evangelina was different than other children in the compound. Her skin and hair were the hue of paper. The healer thought at first she must be dead but then she gave a loud cry no one could miss. Her eyes were pale as well, and never darkened from the icy light blue she was born with.

When it was sunny out, Evangelina had to cover up under long sleeves and floppy hats. Her skin was so sensitive, she sunburned easily. She often had to sit in the shade and help the old women with sit-down chores while the other children helped in the fields or tended animals. She didn't mind the work or the company: The old ladies had interesting stories to tell and they told tales from scripture that worship class didn't cover. Very interesting stories.

She missed not getting to play with the other kids, though. She longed to do things she couldn't, like swim or go out on a sunny summer day in a shirt with no sleeves. Not getting to bond with the other girls meant she felt very awkward when she was with them, a feeling that got worse the older she got.

In the compound, when girls reached their twelfth birthday they moved out of the children's hall and into the family home they would live in for the rest of their lives. They would move in with an older man, who would teach them everything they needed to know about being a wife when they turned eighteen. At age fifteen, the girl would be blooded to the older man. When she turned eighteen, she would marry her pre-selected age-mate in a complicated ritual. After a month sequestered together trying to make offspring, the boy would be sent abroad and the girl would go back to her family home to raise her baby with her blooded Father, until the child was old enough to move into the children's hall, right after potty training.

It was normal life to her and all of the children born there, and yet Evangelina always felt trapped by the place. She knew there was more out there beyond the compound walls. She never wanted to be blooded or married to anyone. She didn't want to have babies. She wanted to be a prophet; someone who communed directly with Samael, not someone who sat around tending a cook fire while babies cried.

She knew she couldn't tell anyone about her feelings so she wrote about it in a secret diary. She wrote about it when she got blooded, and when she got married.

Her blooded Father, Justin, was a strict man who seemed to look for reasons to punish her. Sometimes he would even hit her while she was actively doing whatever it was he told her to do. He hit her less after she married, but that was only because he could have sex with her then. She got pregnant, either from Jeremiah or from her blooded Father, and for a while he let her be. As soon as the baby was born, though, he started hitting her and fucking her regularly.

There wasn't much she could do about it within the compound. She was his blooded Daughter and under his authority until either Jeremiah returned or Justin died. Outwardly, she stoically took the abuse, like so many of her Sisters did. Because she was so well-behaved, no one even wondered when the man died from what appeared to be a heart attack a few weeks after Evangelina's daughter was removed to the children's hall. No one ever suspected Evangenlina had been slipping poison into Justin's evening tea for several weeks before he died.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Fun fact: Evangelina is played by Lady Gaga in my head. Her back story (and Jeremiah's) is inspired by tales of weird compound-dwelling religious groups from present day all the way back in the 1800's. She was mentioned briefly waaay back in my original Murder House fic. I figure nobody in American Horror Story gets a happy ending and Jeremiah was too content for too long. Time to rain on his parade.

Justin, Evangelina's guardian, takes his name from Brother Justin in HBO's Carnivale series but is like... his evil twin. Brother Justin would totally smite the heck out of this Justin. If he wasn't already dead.

Next time: Tate and Violet take the flesh-eating fledglings on an outing.


	14. E2 Chapter 6 - The Birds and the Order

"Okay," Tate said bracingly to the birds on his shoulders. "We're going outside now. It's just like sitting on the window sill only this is for-real outside."

He stepped out onto the front porch and felt several claws dig into his shoulders. He ignored the pain. "It's okay, guys. Going out is kinda weird for me, too. I know it's big out here but you'll get used to it. When you can fly, you'll get to go where ever you want."

The fledglings were still mottled with baby down and unable to fly, but he'd noticed lately they'd all begun to flap their wings as they waddled about. If they were ever going to fly, they'd need to be used to the great outdoors. They hadn't been outside in months so they were due for a field trip.

"This is it," he presented as he walked across the wide lawn, toward the street. "Admittedly, not much to see with the fog. But you get used to that, too. The fog's not so bad today, really. You can even see the houses across the street. Some days, you can't do that."

He stopped at the gate and peeked through the wide-spaced bars, out at the world beyond. He didn't see anyone but he could hear sounds of life down the street in both directions. He pressed his face against the bars and one of the crows hopped off his shoulder and onto the top of the gate. He looked up and smiled crookedly.

"Be careful, Cagney. It's a long way down from there."

The bird winked a shiny black eye at him and stayed where it was. Tate carefully pushed open the other portion of the double-door gate and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He pulled his hands up the sleeves of his coat, not liking being out in the open. The crows still on his shoulders shuffled and dug their claws in deeper. They could sense he was uneasy and took their cues from him.

"Stupid," he chided himself.

He wasn't sure why he felt so weird being out in the open. He wanted to walk down three blocks where the growing settlement's market and other public areas were. He could. The fog that allowed him to move freely covered that area. He just couldn't shake the nervous feeling of paranoia. Needing a scapegoat, he attributed it to the kids from Westfield, even though he hadn't seen any of them since the school blew up.

On his left shoulder, Cobain gave a raspy caw and flapped his patchy wings. He was closest to fully feathered. He would fly soon.

"Here we are," Violet said, coming through the gate behind him.

She had a big, floppy sunhat on and a terry cloth bundle in her arms. She wasn't carrying her baby brother, Joshua, though. She had one of the crow babies in the bundle, the one Tate had named Lon Cheney. Each of the birds were named after stars Tate liked. There was James Cagney, the one on the fence, and Kurt Cobain. Jimmy Stewart and Jim Morrison. They were all lively and loud.

Lon wasn't doing so well. The runt of the group, he was perpetually sick. Violet had appointed herself his personal nurse and had taken to keeping him bundled because he seemed to do better that way. Her mother didn't know Violet had taken a few hooded towels and swaddling blankets. Joshua had so many, they would never be missed.

Stewart cawed now and beat his mangy wings like Cobain, exerting his authority over the foggy neighborhood too. Then, through the fog, a low-slung hearse of a car slid down the street. The tinted windows obscured even the driver. The birds with Tate startled, unused to vehicles. One crow tumbled from his shoulder and caught itself by sinking its claws into his hip.

"Ow!" he objected as the talons punctured him. He reached down and plucked Morrison off his side. He healed the injury and set the bird on his head. "Fuck. They're getting strong."

Violet pulled her attention off the mysterious car that was disappearing into the fog. "Who do you think that was?"

Tate shrugged. "You want to go see? They're probably heading to the church or square."

Violet looked down at the bundle of bird in her arms. "Yeah. We can take the crows for a walk later. This might be important."

"That was a pretty fancy car," Tate agreed. He reached up and collected the crow from the gate. Cagney nipped at his fingers but wasn't serious about it. "C'mon, guys. Back to the nest."

—

Once they'd put the young birds back in their nest, Violet and Tate went down to the town center. The area was well within the fog, so they had no trouble getting there. They avoided the walk down and just apparated near the market. The car wasn't there. A quick shift over to the church found it. The long, silver-and-black car was parked outside. It had no plates; no obvious way to tell where it had come from.

"Fancy," Tate remarked again, noticing it looked pretty clean considering what all was out there.

"Yeah," Violet agreed. "I wonder if they're with the witches?"

Tate frowned and headed up the steps of the church. He slipped through one of the double doors and paused to let his eyes adjust. Violet came in behind him, also passing through invisibly. They hadn't agreed to be stealthy beforehand but both felt the need. Something about the situation had both ghosts on alert.

The vaulted room was lit with hundreds of candles, most in iron stands with multiple branches, to support the sheer number of them. Wax dripped freely, left to collect in lumps beneath the black metal stands. At the far end of the cavernous, pew-lined room, a small group had assembled. Father Jeremiah was there with three men and a woman. Tate sized up the strangers. Two were guys close to Father Jeremiah's age. There was also an older man, and a very pale woman who was almost entirely shrouded in a hooded dress.

"Brothers," Jeremiah said to the two younger men. And then, to the older: "Father."

The priest knew the men well. Reverend Justice Samuel was the bigger of the younger men, fifteen years older than Jeremiah and an Enforcer of the Order. Most in their group preferred the anachronistic black robes but Samuel dressed down in black jeans and a black short-sleeved shirt that showed the pentagram tattoo on his forearm and the leather Enforcer's cuff on his wrist. The other Enforcer, Brother Andrew, wore the same band and the same grim expression as his fellow Justice.

The oldest of the men was Reverend Thomas, Jeremiah's blooded father through his mother. The man had been a great influence on Jeremiah growing up. Normally the priest would welcome his company but the circumstances prevented any joy in the reunion.

"You received our message," the older man said. He was dressed in the ceremonial robes of his station, not a comforting fact.

"I did," Jeremiah said and found his mouth suddenly very dry. "I really don't understand why—"

"The Order wants to know why you haven't kept in contact," Father Thomas interrupted, his words like a whip. "I want to know as well. You were sent here for a reason. Did you forget?"

"I haven't forgotten," Jeremiah said but he was already feeling the pressure. "I've been doing what I was sent to do."

"Have you?"

Brother Samuel and Brother Andrew moved closer to him. Feeling threatened, Jeremiah forced himself to stand his ground and have faith in his conviction.

"Yes. I have. I've been teaching Michael the scripture and the role he's to play," said Jeremiah. "He's been well prepared."

"What about this place?" said Father Thomas. "Is this a temple to Samael?"

"This isn't my project," Jeremiah volleyed. "This is something a local group built, to honor Michael."

The old man looked unimpressed and leaned heavier on the polished cane he used to get around with. "Where is Samael's temple?"

"I wasn't sent here to build a temple. I was sent—"

"You were sent to do our Lord's bidding!" Father Thomas cut him off again. "How can you possibly know what that is if you're not communicating with the Order?"

Flustered and feeling unjustly persecuted, the younger priest frowned and rubbed at the spot between his brows. "I've done the best I can while the world is ending."

It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jeremiah wished he could take them back.

"The Order is charging you with dereliction of duty," the old man said and his words were steel.

The two Reverend Justices seized Father Jeremiah. He tried to pull away from them but they were imbued with the power of their station. He couldn't break free.

"This is insane!" he objected. "Father, I've been completely committed to my mission!"

"So you say," said Father Thomas.

—

"Do you think we should tell Constance?" Tate asked Violet, keeping his voice low even though no one but her could hear him. He knew his mother would want to know but he wasn't sure if he should tell her. He preferred to leave the crisis of conscience to someone who had a better one than he did.

Violet watched the group, her mouth set in a firm little frown. If Constance knew, Michael would know. The girl wasn't sure how she felt about setting him on anyone, for any reason. She wasn't entirely convinced he was the spawn of Satan like her mother believed, but he did have strange abilities that he didn't bother to control at times. She didn't know these people but it sounded like they were his superiors and Father Jeremiah hadn't been doing his job.

"We probably should tell her," she said hesitantly.

"You go," Tate suggested. "I'll stay here and make sure they don't go anywhere."

Violet didn't like the sound of that, either. "How about _you_ go and I'll stay here and keep an eye on them."

Tate liked his idea better. "But I'm good at making diversions."

"That's what I'm worried about," she smiled and gave him a quick kiss on his sulky lower lip. "Hurry back. Okay?"

And that was that. Even though he didn't want to go, Tate went. He couldn't say no to her. He found it difficult to refuse any strong female, but Violet in particular was impossible to deny. And she, like his mother, knew it. Fortunately she didn't exploit it much, but at a time like this, it was an inconvenient impulse.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

Michael has his birds, and Tate has his. Not sure who they'd listen to if it came down to a competition though. Probably Violet.

Next chapter's the end of Episode 2. What will become of Father Jeremiah? It amused me to see him in Apocalypse, mostly because they killed him off right after Constance brought him into the house. Canonized to die.

Tune in next week to see Michael driving badly and the trial of the decade.


	15. E2 Chapter 7 - Judgment Day

Tate found his mother at her house and quickly filled her and Michael in on what had happened. He expected his mother to go berserk but it was Michael who was ready to leave immediately. Constance urged caution and the need for a plan, but there wasn't time. She and Tate could will themselves to the fog-enshrouded area but Michael had to take the slower, mortal route.

"Go," he told them. "I'll meet you there."

When they were gone, Michael grabbed the keys from the hook near the door and headed for the car. He had gone on several noisy joyrides in the thing over the past few weeks, terrorizing the local fauna as he laid tracks on the cracked, overgrown streets. This time, however, his needle-burying speed was justified.

He made it to the church in less than three minutes. He slammed on the brakes, causing the car to skid and come to a stop sideways in the center of the street. It wasn't a move just for show; the other vehicle would have to ram it if the driver wanted to pass without hitting the nearby light pole. And that was the only way out of town center.

Michael threw the car into park and yanked the keys out, then got out of the car. Onlookers, attracted by the commotion, were beginning to gather on the sidewalk near the church. He knew he cut an impressive figure in his noir-black Armani jacket and corduroy pants. He wore black leather Creeper-style Doc Martens and had his chin-length wavy blond hair pulled back from his face with a clip. Mother Constance didn't like the hairstyle, which made him favor it more.

He headed toward the church, chased by a cloud of noxious smoke from the car's overheated tires.

"Looks like I'm late to the party," he fake-smiled after shoving through the double-door entrance.

He took in the dynamic of the group gathered at the front, making a note of where and what everyone was. Tate, Constance, and Violet were there but he saw them only as an energy print, so he knew they were likely invisible to the other living beings.

"It's him," said the brawnier of the men who were with Father Jeremiah.

That got the full attention of everyone at the front of the church, who collectively looked to the new arrival. Michael loved having all eyes on him.

"My Lord," said Father Thomas with a bow. He lowered his eyes respectfully.

The two Enforcers with him did the same, with Brother Justice pushing Jeremiah into a bow as well. Evangelina bowed but she couldn't seem to tear her eyes off of Michael.

When she'd heard the Son of Satan had been born, she had envisioned something like the Lord of Darkness from the movie Legend, all obsidian skin and glistening horns. This young man was more of a rock star type. Human, and good-looking at that. He looked right at her then and she blushed and finally tore her gaze from him. She drew her hood down more so her features were better hidden and kept her eyes on the sidewalk.

"You seem to know me," Michael to the group in a genial tone that belied his feelings. He'd considered popping all of their hearts but it had been months since anything interesting had happened. "But... I don't know you. And I don't know what you're doing with my friend, there. What _are_ you doing?"

At that, Justice let go of Jeremiah. The priest straightened and put a few steps between him and the Enforcers. He thought about joining Michael but was afraid that would make too strong a statement to his Order so he didn't, though he wanted to.

"I am Father Thomas, of the Order of Samael, and these are my brethren, Reverends Justice and Andrew." The older man motioned to each in turn. "Jeremiah is my son and he is part of our Order. He has been charged with dereliction of duty. He's to be taken to trial."

As Michael processed that, more of the ghosts from Murder House were beginning to gather. Word must have gotten out. In addition to Tate, Violet, and Constance, he could sense Patrick and Ben, and a couple of others he didn't know the names of but had seen their energy signatures at the house. They were all lurking unseen, and could easily provide him with more firepower if he needed it.

He'd never been more sure of himself and in control than he was at that moment. It was glorious.

"If there's a trial to be had," Michael said confidently. "Then I'll be the judge."

Father Thomas glanced back at the younger men with him. They had nothing to offer but confused looks. The priest turned his attention back to Michael. It was highly unorthodox but, considering who the younger man was, it was best to err to the side of caution. "As you wish, my Lord, but the matter should be addressed as soon as possible."

"Fine," smiled Michael, feeling the smile this time. He made a grand motion that encompassed the chapel. "We can use my church. The trial begins now."

—

The church was easily converted to a courtroom. The central dais at the front served as a stage for the trial. Michael had a tall-backed ornate chair in the center of the dais to sit in, plush with scarlet cushions. Jeremiah had a simpler chair that Father Thomas had put there. The two Enforcers stood not far behind him. Father Thomas and Evangelina sat in the front right pew nearest Jeremiah. The ghosts made themselves comfortable as well, scattered amongst the pews. Constance had a front row seat.

"Jeremiah, when you were sent here," Father Thomas intoned. The timbre of his voice was pitched perfectly for the vaulted ceiling. The temple in the compound had a high roof as well. "What was your Mission?"

The younger priest felt his heart lurch and he put his hand over his shirt, beneath which was the medallion of Samael he always wore. In stressful times, touching it usually instilled a sense of calm in him but the pendant was inert now. That only worsened his anxiety.

"To find the Antichrist and see that he was raised according to the tenets of our Lord, Samael," he answered, his voice steady despite his nerves. "Which I did. He's already quoted the Prayer for you, and several key verses from the Scrolls."

"His book knowledge is sound," Father Thomas agreed. He clasped his hands behind his back as he began to pace back and forth before the dais. Moving about helped him think. "But you should have brought him back to the Compound when he turned eighteen, if not sooner. Why did you not?"

Jeremiah frowned and sat forward in his chair. "The world was ending. Didn't seem the time for a road trip."

Father Thomas was unmoved. "You would have been safe to travel. You know that. And yet you remained here. Why?"

The younger priest licked his lips. "The trip seemed unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?"

"Michael has everything he needs here," Jeremiah said. "He has a devout following and they know they can find him here. He doesn't need to go to Utah to be told how to be himself."

"That is not a decision for you to make!" Father Thomas barked. His sharp words echoed in the vaulted room. "You knew your duty and ignored it! You had a responsibility to your sect and you had a responsibility to your wife, both of which you shirked. Do you deny it?"

Michael's attention went briefly to the robed woman, who fidgeted in her chair when she was mentioned. Tate openly stared at her, trying to mesh the idea of the priest being married with the peculiar figure the woman cut. Her skin was the color of cream, in a sickly way, and her blue eyes were deep-set and hollow. Tate couldn't blame Jeremiah for not wanting to go home to that.

"I didn't shirk my duties to the sect," Father Jeremiah protested. "Everything I've done in assisting to raise Michael was done in line with our tenets."

"So you were avoiding me?" Evangelina interrupted.

"Quiet, girl," Father Thomas snapped.

Her hands tightened to fists in her lap but she didn't say anything more.

"After Constance died, I couldn't leave," Jeremiah explained. "If I tried to take the boy out of state without his legal guardian, there would have been problems. After the world started to collapse, going anywhere seemed unnecessary when we had everything we needed here."

"That's not a decision for someone of your station," the older man argued.

As the conversation seemed to be looping, Michael decided to intercede. "So the issues," he said loudly. Everyone else fell silent. "Are that Father Jeremiah didn't teach me everything and he abandoned his wife. Easily fixed."

Michael looked to the eldest priest. "Father Thomas, you can teach me everything you think Father Jeremiah missed. Evangeline? -Lina? I know for a fact Father Jeremiah's been cheating on you with my grandmother, so I grant you a divorce, if you want one. For his dereliction, I sentence Father Jeremiah to hang on a cross outside the church for three days and nights. If he survives, you'll know he's been forgiven by My Father and will continue to do His work here, in New Jerusalem."

Stunned silence greeted the young man's charming smile.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

If this was a television show, at this point the show would probably fade on the cross being built outside. Cue end theme. Roll credits. Episode 2 is over. Next week, Michael explores his growing power and drives even worse in Episode 3: New Line. Which will added to this fic. See you in a week!


	16. E3 Chapter 1 - New Line

Perfumed smoke from several incense burners veiled the warm air, lending the suite's bedroom an ethereal dream-like quality. Clusters of candles flickered in all four corners of the room and made the shadows dance. In the king sized bed, bodies writhed and twined. Lips and tongues met. Hands caressed and clawed. Low moans melded with sharp gasps of pleasure and pain. Dark energies gathered, drawn to the sexual charge and absorbed by the revelers.

The orgy ended several hours after it started. Only Michael remained awake at the center of a tangle of pale limbs. The triplets were worn out by his voracious appetite. The older girl, Tisi, would have some nasty bruises the next day but she was beyond feeling them at the moment.

The young man stretched hugely and extracted himself from the pile of siblings. He slipped into the satin boxers Aunt Fiona had given him and went in search of a cigarette. He'd started smoking the Cloves she favored. He liked the spicy flavor and the black paper. In the apocalypse, obtaining such luxury items was tricky for the common man who had to rely on traders, who marked their goods up according to how difficult it was to get them. Fancy cigarettes were expensive but money meant little to Fiona, or anyone Michael knew. He understood the concept of economy but was immune to it. What he desired, he got.

What he desired next was a large glass of something cold to drink. So he went out to the sitting area of the suite, smoke trailing behind him.

"You should finish the ritual first," Pietre advised from the couch when Michael emerged from the bedroom. The blond warlock had an old scroll he was consulting but it was the huge, ugly leather-bound tome on the coffee table that the older man indicated with a tip of his head.

"They're all unconscious," Michael said. "They're useless till they wake up."

Pietre chuckled. "Hardly. Dear Michael, they're _best_ when they're in this state. Less drama." He put aside the scroll and got up. As ever, he was barefoot. Michael had never seen him wear anything on his feet.

"Come," the man said when he reached the bedroom.

He waved Michael over, and produced a long knife in the other hand. He offered it hilt-first to the younger man. Michael took it and examined the jeweled pommel and intricate detailing.

"It's beautiful," the younger man admired.

"The Dagger of Aamon," said Pietre. "Go on. It doesn't matter which one. They all share the same blood."

Michael hesitated only a moment then crossed the room to the bed. He paused again, then plucked a random arm from the heap. It was Meg's arm, the last-born. Michael glanced over at Pietre, who made an encouraging stabbing-and-twisting motion. The young man pressed the point of the blade into the meaty palm of the girl's hand. He expected her to wake, but she merely moaned softly, quieting once the knife was removed.

Some of her blood spilled on the carpet but Michael wasn't concerned. He dipped his fingers in the flow and used it to draw three symbols on his bare chest in angelic script—the ones Pietre had shown him in the book. Then he repeated the incantation Fiona had taught him from the same source. He lifted the girl's injured hand again. He could feel the energy building up inside him, even before he got the bleeding wound up to his mouth.

Her blood was coppery and hot as he hungrily drank it directly from the source. It was the most delicious thing he'd had. Better, even, than the stuff Mother Constance had been giving him. His heart thundered in his chest like a herd of wild horses, making him want to run or kill something or fly like the Dragon.

He let her arm drop before he gave in to the urge to rip it off. Flexing his muscles to do something with the pent-up energy, he turned to Pietre and rubbed his arm across his mouth. It only smeared red across his cheek.

"That was good," he said, giving the older man a messy smile.

The warlock closed the distance between them and draped an arm around Michael's shoulders. He drew him close. "They are good children. They will help you find the Daggers of Armageddon," Pietre murmured in that thick German accent, his lips right next to the young man's ear. "And end those who plan to use the weapons against you."

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

The Order had mounted the crude cross outside the church. The demonstration would not only be punitive, it would serve to show the citizenry who held what sort of power in the settlement, and the new world.

Jeremiah was stripped and provided only a wrap around his waist to spare him the humiliation of public nudity. The two Brothers strapped him to the splintery crossbeam with bailing wire. It didn't have the sharp thorns that barb wire did but the pressure quickly cut into his flesh, when his full weight was on it.

Once he was mounted in place, the disgraced priest shut his eyes. He could hear Father Thomas nailing his proclamation to the post beside the cross. It described Jeremiah's sins against the Order and against Michael, and what his punishment was. He had hoped that the people in the settlement would have the decency to ignore him, but the church was centrally located in the town square. It didn't take long for gawkers to gather.

The first voices he heard were young people and kids, asking questions about what they were seeing and trying their best to come up with answers. One tried to ask Jeremiah a couple of questions but he didn't answer. He hoped if he ignored them, the kids would think he had passed out.

Then one of the younger kids threw a small rock. He flinched in surprise and blinked down at the small gaggle of young people.

"See?" said a brown-haired boy of about nine years. "I told you he's not dead."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes then shut them again.

"Don't you filthy brats have chores to do?" Constance's accusing voice cut through the children's chatter. "Get out of here before I report all of you!"

The priest cracked his eyes open again and saw the kids had all disappeared into the fog. Constance and Billie Dean were the only ones left below him. Constance had a wedge of watermelon and the medium had a painter's pole. They worked a chunk of the melon onto the end of the pole and Constance lifted it to the man's lips.

"You shouldn't—" he started to object.

"Just take it," Constance demanded, trying to mask her need to cry beneath a veneer of pushy impatience. "No one said you couldn't be shown basic human kindness." She paused, then added: "Tate's coming by later with a sanitary bucket. For... you know." She eyed his hip wrap meaningfully.

He laughed ruefully. It might have been hysteria but the whole thing struck him as very funny just then. "Always looking out for me," he said.

He found himself short on breath. Laughing was a mistake. He had to haul himself up by his hurting wrists in order to get another good lungful of air. Settling back down again was agony. He tried to distract himself from the torture by nibbling the melon. It helped slake a thirst he hadn't yet registered. He devoured the piece and the women replaced it with another, and another, till the fruit was gone.

"I'm so sorry," Billie Dean said, near tears. She hated to see the man suffer. "Is there anything more we can do?"

He shook his head in a twitchy way. "You're both... just great."

They stayed with him, sometimes taking shifts so that one could fetch something or take a bathroom break. Many of the settlement's citizens slowed in their daily activities to stare at the man on the cross and the women at his feet but none bothered them.

—

Michael floored the gas pedal of the car and the needle of the speedometer pegged 110 mph. Mother Constance would be mad if she knew he was wasting fuel, which was the very reason he was doing it.

They had argued that evening about Father Jeremiah. She was understandably upset about Michael's decision, but she spoke to him like he was a child again. Like he didn't know what he was doing. She was smart enough to keep her opinion to herself till they got home, so it wasn't a public spectacle, but he didn't appreciate her lack of faith. He knew what he was doing. Better than she did.

He saw something four-legged and dog-sized in the mist ahead and aimed the car at it. It made a satisfying thump when he hit it and he felt it crunch under the driver's side wheels. It wasn't as fulfilling as he wanted, though. He was still amped up from the morning's ritual and needed something more tangible than roadkill to burn it off with.

His thoughts went to sex first, then violence. Then violent sex. Any of the three sounded good but when he thought about 'with whom', no immediate answer came back. There were the triplets, of course, but he knew what that was like. He wanted to explore new territory. His thoughts grazed over the Coven. There were some hangers-on there that he'd met in passing but again came the urge for something different.

Michael slammed on the brakes and whipped the steering wheel to the side, causing the vehicle's tires to screech loudly as it slid sideways down the road. He floored the gas pedal again before the car could come to a complete stop, which sent him rocketing up the side road. He shot out of the foggy zone right near the Hollywood Hills.

That gave him an idea.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

We're into Episode 3 now. It takes its name, New Line, from the Warner Bros. studio that produced the _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ series, among other things.

Pietre (also known as Pieter) is from my Coven fanfic, as are his creepy triplets. For the record, though he calls them such, they're not children (they're older than Michael) and they're not his. That's a long story I haven't written yet. Might someday but it'd be its own story. It's too weird and convoluted to cram in as backstory. Pietre was originally inspired by the main character from the movie _Warlock_. He's been appearing in my fiction since 1997, which gives him a peculiar sense of immortality most characters I write for don't have. He's Fiona's anti-aging secret. He's of the camp that it's no good to live forever if you look like crap.

The Daggers of Armageddon are from the _Omen_ series of books and films, about the Antichrist's rise to power. I've taken some inspiration from that story line, as well as _Rosemary's Baby_ and Justin Bieber's young adult life.


	17. E3 Chapter 2 - Lone Wolf

Michael had never been to the Hills by himself before. Father Jeremiah was always with him in the past. It felt different, entering the marketplace without him. The sounds and smells were the same but it was somehow different.

People noticed him immediately. He had done nothing to hide who he was, something the priest had taken to doing when he wanted to shop with Michael uninterrupted. The young man felt someone touch his shoulder but when he turned to see who, no one was behind him save the normal bustle of the market. Then he felt someone touch his elbow. He was pretty sure it was the old lady beside him but she was looking at some rutabaga and she didn't make eye contact with him.

The further he got into the marketplace, the more people touched him. It was a weird experience. When he finally caught one of the touchers—a woman with a flower print scarf over her head—he caught her hand so she couldn't get away.

"Why did you do that?" he asked her.

She began to tremble noticeably and wouldn't meet his eyes. "Forgive me, sir! I only wanted your blessing. My son is sick. I thought if I touched you, some of your... your..." She didn't know how to explain the folk belief and was too scared to try.

Michael was amazed. He hadn't been to the marketplace to heal anyone in months. It hadn't even crossed his mind. In his absence, the people had come up with their own beliefs to get them through the hard times.

He felt someone else touch his back in passing and he laughed. The poor woman before him cringed. That made him grin even bigger.

"Don't be scared," he told her, pulling her in for a hug like Pietre had done to him several times now. He dug in his pocket and found a cigarette lighter. He pulled it out and pressed it into her hand. "Go home to your son. Light a candle with this. Let it burn for an hour beside his bed and tomorrow he'll be fine. Then take the candle to anyone else who's sick and do the same thing for them, as payment. Understand?"

The woman took the cigarette lighter with a quaking hand. Michael smiled and kissed her forehead. When he did, he transferred some of his pent-up energy into her. The candle and lighter were unimportant; she would be the thing that healed others. If she was clever, she would figure that out. If not, her gift would die when the lighter did.

—

Conferring some of his power to the woman in the market made Michael feel a less edgy but he was still restless. Horny. Hungry. He was hungry most of the time now, primarily for blood. He could eat just about anything, but blood was the only thing that satisfied him.

It didn't take long for him to tire of the market. He attracted a crowd that followed him in a tight cluster everywhere he went. It was amusing at first but it became impossible to move more than a few steps at a time. When he discovered someone had cut off a corner of his shirt, he decided it was time to lose them.

Ducking between stalls lost some of his devotees but a handful persisted. Those he shook in a tent-like tavern. The shady, close quarters allowed him to snake his way through the throng of people crowded there and out the back way without his flock. He nabbed a hat from the bar when he passed and put the battered thing on once he was outside. He shed his jacket next and stuffed it in a wad under his arm.

He knew he needed a better disguise so he ducked into the nearest clothing stall he came to. Keeping his head down, he looked around for something that might work. He found a rack of bandanas and plucked a couple of random ones from the lot. He was set to move on when he felt someone grab his arm.

"You have to pay for those bandanas."

Turning, Michael found himself facing a girl he guessed to be his age, if a bit younger. She was shorter than him and had a no-nonsense jut to her jaw. He expected her to back down when she saw his face but she didn't. She didn't seem to recognize him.

"Oh. Right," he smiled, making a game of it. He patted his pockets but he had no money with him. He never had a reason to. "Well shit. I guess I left my money at home."

She wasn't amused. "Then you can't have the bandanas."

Her mousy brown hair was pinned up in a sloppy bun and her clothes were well-worn. The jeans she had on were threadbare at points that were obviously not fashionable. Her lips were of a nice shape but chapped, her fingernails were blunt and unpolished. She had a large bowie knife in a sheath at her hip.

Michael could end the game at any moment but he was enjoying the honesty of the interaction. He liked her plucky spirit. "Maybe I could do something for you, in exchange for them?"

"Like what?" she challenged.

"I'm told I give good backrubs."

She almost smiled because the way he said it was kind of cute. She did find him attractive, even if he was a sneak-thief. He was a charming one. "How about you move some crates for me and we'll call it even."

Michael made an exaggerated show of being disappointed. "Your loss. Show me to the crates. Maybe they'll appreciate might skills."

She motioned toward the back of the stall. "Behind the back canvas flap. What's your name?"

He went ahead of her and ducked through the opening in the tent side that led to the narrow space between stalls. He almost said his real name but didn't want to tip her off so he borrowed one. "Jude."

"I'm Mandy," the girl said. "Those're the crates."

She waved to encompass the man-high stack of old, splintery wood boxes. Michael eyed them. They looked like they would be uncomfortable to touch. "What do you want done with them?"

"My dad wants them gone," she shrugged. "He takes some down to the dump every chance he gets but he's busy. They're too heavy for me."

Michael studied the pile and considered his options. "So you just want them gone?"

"Yeah," the girl said, her tone edging into suspicious as he seemed to be giving the matter a lot of thought.

"Okay," Michael smiled. "Go on back to your work. I'll be just a few minutes."

"Minutes," she laughed. "More like hours. The dump's ten minutes away by foot."

Michael kept smiling, undaunted. She finally left him to the chore and, when she did, he turned to the crates.

—

A wealthy customer came by in the interim and took up a good deal of time with her ineffective browsing. When Mandy finally got a chance to check on the work "Jude" was doing, he was already done and thumbing through a vintage comic book he'd picked up at one of the other vendor stalls. His blond hair was covered by one of the bandanas he'd taken from the shop front. He smiled when he saw her.

"Where did the crates go?" she asked.

The only thing left of the pile was a depression in the dirt where they had been.

"Away," he grinned, rolling the comic up so he could shove it into the back of his waistband. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"You didn't take those all down to the dump by yourself," she accused. She wouldn't be satisfied till she knew his trick.

"No," he agreed amiably, closing the distance between them.

She scowled at him but the look lacked venom. Her green eyes held a spark of amusement. "Well. Whatever. I guess you can keep the bandanas." She folded her arms. "Did you sell the crates?"

"No," he smiled. He was right in front of her. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "I don't want to talk about the crates anymore."

Mandy blushed hard. "I.. should..." she motioned vaguely toward the canvas flap that led back to her family's shop.

"Should you?" He cupped her jaw with his hand and leaned in to kiss her.

She kissed back.

—

Michael floored the gas pedal and sped down out of the hills, taking the curves so fast he nearly lost control of the car. The tires squealed in protest. As he descended into the valley, he noticed peripherally that the fog now reached the base of the hill. Soon it would reach the Hollywood settlement. The change had happened while he was in the market and he had a strong suspicion it had to do with the blood on his shirt.

Soon he was near the Coven's hotel. He pulled up fast and slammed on the brakes, leaving long lines of black rubber on the pavement. He shut off the engine and hopped out of the car. Several crows flapped above the hotel, startled up from their roosts by his noisy arrival. They settled back down on the eaves of the hulking old building once he went inside.

He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The central fire pit was lit but the room was virtually empty. Only a dark-haired man and a bald Chinese girl were there, tucked away at the back bar where the light was worst.

"Is Fiona here?" Michael asked them, trying to appear calmer than he felt.

The guy shook his head. He was conservatively dressed, wearing a simple long-sleeve button-down shirt and pants, both in black. The girl with him was a study in contrast, baring most of her pale body. She wore a black fishnet shirt under which her small breasts were virtually bare, made decent only with strips of duct tape to cover her nipples. Michael had seen underpants that covered more than her tiny black leather shorts. It took no effort to mentally undress her.

"Where did she go?"

"I think she's still visiting her sister?" the guy offered. "Do you want to wait? I can get you something to drink."

"No, thanks," Michael said. "If you see her, tell her I'm looking for her."

He headed for the stairs then and took them two at a time to the second floor. He went to the room that Aunt Fiona had let him have, wanting to wash, but the door was locked. He had a key somewhere that she'd given him but he couldn't remember where he put it.

He tried to recall but his thoughts looped right back to the girl in the market. When they kissed, his hunger took over. The scent of her innocent arousal was maddening and, before he knew it, he was fucking her there in the narrow alleyway. Then he was choking her. Her neck snapped so easily, he didn't even try. She spasmed a few times then died in his arms.

The Bowie knife at her side was razor sharp. He used it to slit her throat. In the shadows between the closely-crowded stalls, Michael gorged himself on the sweetest blood he had tasted. He left her body beneath some moldy old rice sacks he found behind another booth. He could have gotten rid of her as easily as he did the crates but he wanted her father to find her, so he wouldn't have to wonder what happened to her.

Michael let his forehead rest against the door to his room. Everything he did was bad. So bad, his own family had kept him hidden for years so he couldn't do things like he did at the market. He thought of Mandy and felt a strange constriction in his middle. He had liked her. She was spunky and seemed to like him, even though she had every reason not to. She was the only person he had met who didn't know who he was on sight. Her lips had tasted like mint.

Now she was dead under a pile of scratchy old bags.

He could have tried to bring her back. It was too late now. Someone would have found her. Bugs would be inside her.

"Hey."

It was the guy from downstairs. He had followed Michael and was heading his way.

"Hey," the younger man said. He tried to pull his shit together and put on a poker face.

"You okay?"

Michael gave him a dry smile. "Yeah. I just... sometimes I wish I was somebody else."

"I think everyone does," the other guy said. Then he looked down. Michael had cleaned his face and hands but the black shirt clung wetly to his chest. "What's that?"

"Blood," was Michael's honest answer. "Not mine. I need to shower but I locked myself out of my room."

He slumped, though it was the nagging thought of Mandy weighing him down, not the predicament he was in.

"Hey," the other guy said, misunderstanding his mood. "You can use the communal bathroom. It's a mess but there's shampoo and soap. I can find you a clean towel somewhere."

"Do you have a shirt I could borrow?" Michael intended to burn the one he was wearing.

"I don't think my stuff would fit you but I can find you something that will."

.

* * *

Author's Note:

The title of this chapter refers to Michael's attempt at going it alone. Turns out he's not so good with it. But if at first you don't succeed...

Next time: Rubber Man. 'Nuff said.


	18. E3 Chapter 3 - Revelation

Misty Day joined the women on the second morning, arriving at dawn with a picnic basket and a folding stool. Billie Dean was napping in a camp chair nearby but Constance didn't need sleep and was alert when the shawl-covered witch arrived.

"Can I help you?" Constance demanded, drawing her own wrap closer around her shoulders. She had a chenille blanket about her, for comfort more than warmth. The cold December air didn't bother her. She liked it because it smelled like home.

"I came to help _you_ ," the swamp witch corrected.

She pushed her head scarf back and offered the ghost woman a smile. Misty was an older woman who had once been pretty but her looks had faded in the absence of care. Her gray hair was a snarled mass, poked through with feathers, beads, and bone shards.

"Help us?" Constance sniffed indignantly. "How?"

The swamp witch shook out her stool and set it down near Billie Dean. She put the picnic basket beside it, then settled on the stool with a soft grunt. "I brought food. And companionship in these tryin' times."

She looked up at the man on the cross, who was ashen and barely breathing. She wouldn't be much assistance to him but she wasn't there for him.

"Who are you?" asked Billie Dean sleepily. She'd been roused by the other two, even though they were speaking quietly.

"Misty Day," the witch smiled. She put out a hand and her wrist jangled with a multitude of bracelets.

"Billie Dean," responded the medium. They were close in age but Billie Dean wore it better. She could no longer indulge in manicures or spa treatments, but the local hair-cutter was talented and Billie still knew how to apply makeup. She shook the other woman's hand."You're one of the... the witches."

Misty smiled and her eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure at being recognized. "That's right." She squeezed Billie Dean's hand before letting go. "I brought ya some breakfast." She motioned to the basket on the sidewalk.

Constance huffed an annoyed sound and readjusted her wrap. She didn't want the swamp hag there but her presence did save Billie Dean the trouble of getting herself food. Still. "Best check to make sure there's no poison in those apples."

"Oh, Constance," the medium dismissed.

"I wouldn't poison her," Misty said with a guileless smile. "If I wanted her dead, I wouldn't have bothered walkin' all this way." Finding the subject too silly to waste more words on, she changed the subject. "Have you been to that li'l camp on the corner? It's the most charmin' thing I've seen in ages."

Constance rolled her eyes. "I'm heading home," she said. "I'll be back later."

She made good on the threat, but it was the Montgomery Mansion she went to.

—

Tate could sense his mother searching for him and suffered a strong urge to hide. He was sure she was going to make him go hold the pee bucket for the priest again and he didn't want to do it. Hiding from Constance was never a good idea, though. The inner conflict made his stomach upset. Which he thought was terribly unfair since he was dead and shouldn't get sick. Being evolved wasn't quite as awesome as he expected it to be.

"There you are."

She had found him. He wasn't hiding but he hadn't come out looking for her either. He was just hanging around in the shadows of the basement, hoping she would go away.

"What do you want?" Tate couldn't keep the defensive tone out of his words.

She looked at him in an appealing way and reached to pet his hair. "I'm gonna need you to check on Father Jeremiah."

Tate gave a huge, martyred sigh. "I knew it. Toilet duty."

Her expression hardened and she let her hand drop. "The man is _sufferin'_ , Tate! Have some God-damned respect!"

"It's not my fault he's there!" Tate said, missing the gravity of the man's predicament. "Why are you leaving him there anyway? Why don't you tell Michael to let him go?"

She blinked fast to drive back the tears that were brightening her eyes. "Some things are bigger than just one person."

That made no sense to the teen. He frowned. "Why don't you just kill him then? He wouldn't be suffering."

Constance gritted her teeth. She knew he wouldn't understand the complicated situation. "Sweetheart, it's _not_ that simple. Death isn't the go-to answer for the problems of the livin'."

"I can let him go for you," Tate volunteered. "Then it wouldn't be your fault. If Michael gets mad at me, I'll just tell him to fuck off."

His mother grabbed his face, not sure whether to smother him in kisses or shake him. "Tate! Just—" She forced herself to calm down and smoothed his uncombed curls with her palms to keep from hurting him. "Hold the bucket for Father Jeremiah. All right?"

Tate couldn't refuse a direct order from his mother but he didn't have to like it.

—

The priest was unconscious when Tate got there. Waking him to agony just to ask him if he needed to piss seemed unnecessary. So he left the bucket with the two old ladies who were camped out at the base of the cross and went home. He had better things to do than sit around waiting when someone else was already there, doing just that. He could tell Billie Dean didn't approve but he didn't care. He put up with her living in his house because his mother said so, but he still didn't like the medium.

When he got back to the house he headed up, up, all the way to the attic. He wanted to add the bead he'd stolen from Misty Day to his treasure box. It was a fine bead, polished bone. It was carved in the shaped of a tiny skull. He wondered, as he looked at it, if it was a tooth or some other bone. Was it animal? Human? Such a mystery and a wonder.

He stopped short of his hiding spot when detected motion in the shadows ahead. Suddenly Rubber Man was there, closing in on him. Startled and confused, he scampered back a few steps before thinking to address the person.

"Who's in there?"

Rubber Man stopped. Then he started to laugh. It was muffled but it sounded like...

"Michael." Tate was annoyed. He had already told the guy before not to mess with the rubber suit. "What're you doing with that? It's mine. Take it off."

"No," Michael said. "I'm taking it. I'm going to wear it at my birthday party."

"Why?" Tate asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Because I want to," said Michael smugly. "I want to wear it when I impregnate Vivien."

"Vivien?" Tate gawked. "But she's your mother!"

Rubber Man grabbed him by the flannel and pulled him close. Almost nose-to-nose. "And you're my father." Michael's voice was distorted by the mask. It made him sound monstrous. He shoved Tate up against the nearest wall and pinned him there.

"Let go." Tate felt his temper flare.

"I've missed our playtime," said Rubber Man. He brushed his thumb over the teen's lower lip, bringing the scent of vinyl with it.

Tate wasn't sure if it was Michael or the suit he was dealing with.

"Take off the hood," Tate insisted. He knew how different things were when the hood was on. Michael might not be in control of what he was doing. "We can play _Grand Theft Auto_."

He tried to grab the hood himself but Rubber Man caught his wrist. Then the slick black suit pressed up close, simulating the act of sex in a slow pelvis-to-pelvis grind that made the fine hairs on Tate's arms stand on end.

"I want to play a new game," Rubber Man's words were a coarse whisper, right next to his ear.

It was too much for Tate. He disapparated, leaving the rubber suit in the attic while he fled to the far corner of the basement. He reappeared under the old card table, where his digger toy and action figures were. It was one of his favorite hiding spots. He felt safer there but was still rattled by the encounter. His instinct was to repress the whole thing and pretend it didn't happen, but he knew that wasn't the answer this time.

Sure, he could forget it, but that would leave him open to being blindsided by another weird encounter. He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand out wildly. Either it was the infernal gimp suit saying those things or Michael had really gone off the deep end with the Antichrist thing. Either one was possible. The suit was capable of inspiring anything in its wearer, but the situation with Father Jeremiah might have had some weird effect on Michael. He was like a dad to the young man.

Tate was Michael's father, technically. He didn't like to think about that either, but it was true. Michael wouldn't even be around if Tate hadn't done bad things in the rubber suit himself. His eyes burned with guilty tears. If Michael hurt Vivien, that would be Tate's fault, too. Michael was his responsibility, even if he had never been a father to him.

Miserable, Tate hugged his knees and put his head down. After a long time he came to the conclusion that Violet needed to know. She would think of something. But he didn't want to see her reaction to what Michael said. He thought about writing it on her chalkboard, but he didn't want anybody else to see it. He could write a note but that still held the risk of someone else seeing. Writing it was too permanent a confession.

He had to talk to her about it.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

My mother used to say to my siblings and I: "I hope you have a kid just like you, only worse!" She called it the Mother's Curse.

I guess my oldest sister must've been pretty bad, because she never had kids.

Being Michael's dad is something Tate's never really owned. Just another elephant-sized thing he's done that he successfully disassociated himself from. Except Michael can't be shut out as easily as the kids from Westfield. Like Tate, he's kind of determined to be noticed.

Next time: Michael has an "A-ha!" moment. And we're not talking animated pop music videos.


	19. E3 Chapter 4 - Lamentations

Violet was in her room when Tate showed up at the door, brooding and wearing a sweater that was at least three sizes too big. It was an old button-down brown thing that his father had owned. A scratchy polyester hideosity that went with nothing. The sort of garment they both liked. His hands were hiding in the long sleeves when he shuffled over to where she was sitting at her desk, sketching.

"Hey," she said, setting her pencil down. She opened her arms and he came to her. "What's up?"

"I saw Michael," he said. He knelt down beside her so he could hug her middle. He shut his eyes when he felt her arms settle around his shoulders. "He's going to do something bad."

Violet stroked his hair back from his face and could see the strained expression. Concern bloomed. "What's he going to do?"

Tate sniffled and tried to tell her but the words didn't want to come out. Tears did instead, making his eyes burn again. He put his face down in her lap.

"Tate," Violet said, concern growing. She gave his back a pat. "Talk to me. What is Michael going to do?"

"He's going to hurt Vivien," he sobbed into her leggings.

"Why? Because of before?"

Tate kept his head down. Now that the tears had started, he couldn't stop crying. He'd been holding a lot in the past few days. "Because he wants—he wants to get her pregnant."

Violet's brows shot up to her hairline. "She can't have a baby. She's dead."

"It didn't stop me," he pointed out mournfully.

She gently urged his head up from her lap. Her leggings were damp where his face had been. He looked at her miserably, avoiding eye contact.

"Tate. What did he say _exactly_?"

—

That evening, the coven met at the hotel to discuss Michael's birthday event.

"Of course, you can have it any way you like, Michael," Fiona told him. She exhaled smoke and tapped her long black cigarette in the nearby crystal ashtray.

"—but you should consider what statement you want to make," Cordelia inserted. "This is your platform. What sort of impression do you want to make?"

"Black and red are traditional colors," Fiona pointed out on his behalf. "We wear black. You're wearing it right now."

Delia pressed her lips together in a prim look of restraint. Her mother was right; she was wearing a pair of black slacks. Her blouse was silver but the suede jacket over it was black, as were her suede pumps.

"I'm just afraid he'll end up looking like an S-and-M version of Hitler."

Fiona laughed, as did Desiree, who was sharing the couch with Cordelia. The mulatto girl was born and raised in New Orleans and had actually seen that sort of thing down on Bourbon Street during carnival. She stifled the mirth quickly though. She wouldn't want Michael to be insulted, though his grand-aunt had no such concerns.

"I'd have to grow a stupid moustache and shrink about a foot to look like that," said Michael. "And get twenty percent uglier, at least." He straightened the black bow that held his blond hair back. He knew he was much better looking than Hitler on his best day.

Misty let herself into the lobby then. Her hunched frame and many shawls gave her the countenance of a shambling willow tree as she joined the small circle at the central fireplace. She minced no words when it came to the purpose of her visit.

"The priest's dead," she said as she settled herself into a chair close to the fire. She helped herself to some brandy from the coffee table, filling a lead crystal tumbler with the potent amber fluid.

Michael stared at the old witch. Father Jeremiah had preternatural endurance and was stronger than any normal man. Michael had fully expected him to survive the attrition. He had been so sure of it, in fact, that he hadn't even considered what might happen if the priest died. The possibility didn't even seem real. Her attitude was so matter-of-fact, though, and she had no reason to lie about such a thing.

"Oh," he said finally. His voice was distant in his ears and it was hard to focus on talking. "Well. I guess somebody should bury him. Have him put in a nice mausoleum at the cemetery where he took Mother Constance's body from."

Misty looked at Fiona, who arched a brow at the other woman.

"Who?" the swamp witch asked. "Me?"

Michael smiled faintly. "Yes. Of course you. Who else would I be talking to?"

Misty cocked her head. "I guess I can do you the favor," she allowed, her southern drawl elongating the word. "But I want to be put in charge of your church."

Her logic was strange to Michael in his distracted state. "Buck runs the congregation. I thought you liked him."

"I do," Misty assured enthusiastically. "But he's sick. Dyin'. I've been tryin' for days to heal him but... whatever it is, it's determined to be the end of him. When he dies, I want the cult."

"Fine," Michael dismissed. He didn't care about the politics of the various groups that were digging into New Jerusalem like so many fichus trees. "Just put Father Jeremiah someplace nice. And easy to find. I want to do a ceremony there soon."

Fiona lit one of her black cigarettes. "Wasn't he your grandmother's lover?"

Michael shifted his attention to her. "Yes. Why?"

Fiona smiled and exhaled smoke. "I should go offer her my condolences."

The young man didn't know the twins' relationship in great detail but he knew better than that. "Condolences. Right."

Fiona's expression only grew more smug.

Michael found the smile irritating and he didn't know why. "I'll see you later," he said to no one specific. Grabbing his coat, he left.

His mood darkened as he headed down the stairs and out of the building. He felt betrayed. Father Jeremiah had no right to die. That wasn't part of the plan.

—

The black world sailed by outside the car windows as Michael tore down the long, lonely stretch of road. He had no idea where he was going or where he was. After he left the hotel, he just hopped in the car and drove. It wasn't until the car gave a shaky rattle that he even thought about fuel. Checking the gauge, it was under the "E" mark.

"Fuck!" Michael punched the steering wheel, setting off the horn.

Looking around outside, he saw a few small buildings but they were all dark. There was a gas station ahead with a lone freeway light shining above it. Otherwise it, too, was dark. Still, it was his best hope so he angled for that exit.

The engine cut out just off the freeway and he had to push the car the rest of the way. In neutral gear, it rolled easily enough. It was kind of fun, rolling the thing. Like when he and Ethan used to play with toy cars together.

The thought of the ghost boy rankled. Ethan didn't exist. He was just a lie Tate had made up to trick Michael into believing that he had a friend. The young man consoled himself with the knowledge that he had scared the crap out of Tate the last time they crossed paths. The brat had some nerve, trying to tell Michael what to do. It had been quite satisfying to make him run. The look on his face right before he vanished was pretty funny, in retrospect.

Not that Michael had meant what he said. He held no attraction toward Vivien or Tate. He didn't think of either of them as parents but neither was someone he wanted to fuck, either. One was too old and the other one was too much like a little brother to him. He wasn't sure where he got the shit that he said to Tate. It was what popped into his mind when he reached for things to hurt the other boy with. It sprang so easily to mind, he acted on it before Tate got the chance to say anything mean. And things were obviously going that way over the stupid rubber suit that he'd only wanted to borrow.

Michael decided he was never going to let Tate have the thing back.

He stopped the car when he got the gas tank lined up with the dark pump. He put the vehicle in park and tugged the keys out. He looked around. The place looked and sounded dead. It even felt dead.

He keened his senses and swept the area again, using the various other ways he'd discovered to look at things. He checked for spirits but that spectrum was dark too. There were no noticeable heat signatures from sizable living entities either—just a couple of wild dogs skirting by. Then he shifted to the dead zone.

Instantly he could detect the presence of several undead things. There were three zombies milling around inside the gas station and a couple more behind it. One was down on the ground. The other was slumped against the wall. They were no threat to him but Michael was in a bad mood. He ducked into the car and pulled out the HK-91 from the inner door mount. He checked the weapon then went hunting.

It was a nice way to blow off aggression. He took out the ones in back first, picking off the wall zombie with a clean shot to the head. Then he put two bullets in the legless one on the ground, just for fun. Bam! Bam! Mushy black brains streaked across the dark pavement.

He moved to the store next and kicked in the door. The nearest zombie spun toward the sound and, seeing him, lunged at him with a hungry snarl. He shot it at close range and watched its head explode in a spray of vile ichor. As it dropped, the other two shambling corpses came at him next. He took the first one out then his gun jammed. Cursing, he retreated to buy himself some time to clear the jam. The zombie staggered after him, feral with hunger for flesh. Two steps later and its head was gone too.

Michael took another quick look around. He had made a lot of noise and noise tended to attract attention. When nothing nasty came at him, he went back inside the shop, stepping over the rotting carcasses on his way in.

Inside, the little store still had a lot of snacks still on the shelves, likely due to the presence of zombies. Everything was way past its prime, though, and not worth disturbing the layers of dust on. He grabbed a display of Zippo lighters because those were still usable. He also took the three portable gas containers. He carried his haul back outside. He put the gun and lighters in the car then assessed the gas pump.

He had no idea how to make it work.

Michael picked up the handle that was sticking out of the thing and looked at it. He knew where it would go but squeezing the pump's trigger did nothing. He shook it but that produced similar results. He wasn't even sure there was any gas left in it. Maybe it all dried up.

He couldn't think of a way to find out. He couldn't see the gas, where ever the tank got it from. He couldn't sense it like a zombie or a person. Frustrated, he kicked the pump and left a dent in its side.

"Come out!" he demanded of the gas.

When nothing happened, he kicked the pump again. The side caved in more but it still didn't give up the gas he wanted. Father Jeremiah had always made the gas pumps work before. Michael should have paid more attention to what he did.

Thinking about the priest only upset him more. He wasn't supposed to be dead!

The young man turned and gave the stupid gas pump a swift backward kick. It buckled and the outer casing flew off. It landed nearby with a loud clatter. The whole night seemed to freeze for a few seconds, then the sound of insects slowly resumed.

Michael stared at the electronic guts of the machine he'd just beaten up. Then he started to laugh.

"I'm such an idiot," he said.

He went back inside the store and hauled out all of the old bottles of water from the inert cooler. He wouldn't want to drink the contents but they made a fine base to convert into gasoline. He poured a couple of gallons into the tank and loaded the rest into the trunk. He was feeling a little lightheaded afterward, sort of like he felt after he changed all the water in the house to bourbon, but it wasn't a bad feeling. It didn't make him woozy this time.

In fact, he was quite pleased with himself as he got into the car and started it up. He revved the engine, ready to head home. Not only had he solved the gas problem, for his car and for all of New Jerusalem, he also knew what to do about Father Jeremiah.

On the way back, he put down the window and let the wind rush through the car. The icy air felt exhilarating.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

So by now you may have noticed the titles of the chapters tend to run toward a Biblical theme. Lamentations is a book in the Bible thought to be written by the prophet Jeremiah. It's a collection of lamenting poems about the destruction of Jerusalem. I didn't know that until after I named this chapter. So any connection between that and this story really is coincidental. The word primarily refers to Tate's lap-cry and Michael's apparent regret(?) about Father Jeremiah.

Next time: Plans. Violet's and Michael's.


	20. E3 Chapter 5 - Exodus

"Dad?" Violet said as she approached him.

Ben was seated at one of the two long tables in the cavernous room. He had several books open and spread around him in a broad fan. Even more documents filled the spaces in between them.

"Hi, honey," he greeted, glancing up briefly.

"What're you working on?" she asked. She wasn't sure how to lead up to what she wanted to say but she also didn't just want to blurt it out.

Ben looked back to the papers. He hesitated as he debated how to answer that. "Well. I... think I've figured out who my father is. Narrowed it down, anyway."

That was monumental enough to catch his daughter's interest. "No way. Really? Who?"

Violet wanted to know who her grandfather might be. She crowded in next to her dad's elbow, to better see what he had laid out. There were several papers of many colors, with information scrawled on some in longhand while others were typed. Some had old black-and-white photos with them.

"She didn't put a father's name on the birth certificate," Ben said. "My mother. She put Harmon down as my last name but according to these files, that was the name of a doctor at the asylum where she was incarcerated, before she moved south. According to this," he waved at the heap of documents. "The facility was shut down in 1968 and the patients were all just...flushed out into the streets."

Violet's brows inched up. "You think the doctor—"

"Well, I started looking deeper into it and..." Ben sighed and gathered up a sheaf of prints only to spread them out again. "She was a patient of the doctor who turned out to be the Bloodyface Killer. Oliver Thredson. You know who that was?"

"Of course," Violet dismissed impatiently. He should know her better than that. Then she made the connection. "You think he might be your dad?"

Ben shrugged and spread his hands. "It could be Thredson or Harmon. It's also possible another patient got her pregnant. She had a...documented history of promiscuity. Nymphomaniac."

Violet made a grim face. "Christ. Maybe you should quit while you're ahead."

He rubbed his eyes. "You might be right." He forced a smile then. "Was there something you needed?"

Her expression grew more serious. "It's Michael."

Ben's frail smile faded. "What about him?"

"He said he wants to—" Violet almost told him what she knew but the words locked on her tongue. She suddenly imagined how her father would react to the news. On top of what he'd just disclosed to her, things would likely get real ugly for everyone, and fast. "He wants to wear that stupid rubber suit at some birthday party he's throwing himself."

Her dad flinched and she knew she had made the right call to edit the truth for him.

"Did he tell you that?" asked Ben wearily.

She shook her head. "Tate said he found Michael wearing it in the attic, and he was being a royal fucking creep. He told Tate he was going to wear it at his party."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know, dad," Violet commiserated earnestly. "Why is it even still here? It shouldn't be. I personally put that shit-sucking thing on the curb, before civilization collapsed. I know you threw it out at least once, too. One of our freaky neighbors should have snapped it up for eBay when we did, if nothing else."

"I think it's part of the curse that is this house," suggested Ben.

"If you think this place is cursed," Violet said, tone curious. "Why do you stay here? You can leave now. Move to another house."

He peered at her in puzzlement. "I don't know. I suppose I don't want to uproot everyone. You, your mom. Moira."

There was an awkward moment as Violet tried to respond without hurting his feelings. "Dad, I'm like. Almost thirty. You don't have to worry about me anymore."

Ben hadn't considered her actual age before. To him, she would always be his little girl. It didn't help that she never aged physically past sixteen years. "I'll always worry about you. You're my girl."

She rolled her eyes but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. "I just meant you don't have to stay here because of me."

"Are you trying to kick me out?" he said with a half smile of his own.

"Maybe we should leave," Violet suggested. She pushed her straight hair behind an ear. "We can go as far as the fog reaches. I heard it goes all the way out over the ocean now. We could live in a beach house. One of those rich places right on the sand."

He could tell she was serious and, for the first time in years, Ben considered what it might be like to go someplace else. "Would you like that, Vi?"

For the first time, the teen gave genuine consideration to the thought. "Why not? I mean... We could at least go vacation somewhere, right? Joshua's never been to the beach and he's lived in California his whole—" She realized what she was saying and faltered. "I.. mean... He's never been to the beach, you know? He might like to feel sand and smell the ocean."

Ben caught her hand and gave it a gentle, appreciative squeeze. "Let's see if your mother wants to. It could be nice to spend Christmas at the beach."

—

Since they had no jobs or school to be excused from, nothing to pack, and no bills or responsibilities, the Harmons were able to leave that same day. But that didn't mean leaving was easy, for Violet.

She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay with Tate, and help him deal with the shit storm she could sense coming. Leaving with her family felt too much like running away. But if she didn't go too, they would ask questions she didn't want to answer. She couldn't tell them what Michael had said he was going to do. It would only freak them out and make things worse.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she told Tate gently as she hugged him goodbye.

The words were a knife in his heart, well-intended but agonizing. He tried to get his feelings under control but he couldn't stop crying. He was losing Violet again.

"Don't forget me," he said. The teary words were muffled by her shoulder.

"How could I ever do that?" she said, unable to help the incredulous statement.

His head was starting to hurt. It always did when he cried too hard. "If I don't let go now, I never will."

They kissed then, deep and long. She could feel his desperation and it squeezed her heart. The kiss tasted like his tears when their lips parted. She cupped his jaw and offered him a reassuring smile. He put his hand over hers for a moment, wanting to memorize the way it felt. Then he slipped away into the shadows.

She had asked him to come with them, but he had to stay. What held him there went far beyond the old house.

...

Tate spent the next three days in Violet's room, curled up in the center of her bed. He propped a picture of her against the pillow next to him so he could see her smiling at him. Occasionally his eyes leaked. Every now and then he had to blow his nose. Other than that, he stayed like that for hours and hours.

The evening of the third day, the door opened and Pat came in. He paused in the doorway to see if Tate would greet him. When he didn't even move, the jock went over to the bed.

"When were you thinking about getting up?" he said, as subtle as a board to the head.

Tate stirred to look at him. "When Violet comes back."

"Uh-huh. And when's that?"

"I don't know," Tate said, shifting so he could look at her picture some more.

"Have fun with that," Pat remarked dourly. "Me, I'm going to the cemetery. Michael's doing some sort of ritual tonight out by the priest's grave."

That got the teen's attention. He rolled over to peer up at the other guy. "He is?"

"Yeah," confirmed Patrick. "It's supposed to happen before midnight tonight."

Tate was confused. "Why?"

"No clue. Those folks from the Order left town yesterday. Maybe it has something to do with that?"

"Huh. They didn't do a funeral for him. Maybe he didn't want the other priests fucking with it," Tate speculated. "He's been acting really weird lately, though. Like. _Really_ weird."

"Emphasizing 'really' doesn't tell me anything," Pat said. "Why don't you get out of bed and come compare notes with Chad and me. If Michael's up to something, we should have some sort of plan."

Tate peeled himself out of the pile of blankets and sat up. It was impossible to mope effectively with Pat standing right there, talking to him.

"I don't know what there is to plan," he said as he slid out of bed. "Even if he is planning something weird, there's not much we can do about it."

"Defeatist attitude from somebody who blew up a school."

Tate shot the bigger guy a flat look. "Not the same thing."

"You're right," Pat agreed. "Keeping tabs on the Antichrist is a much better cause than blowing up a school."

Tate bristled, feeling unfairly picked on. "You dragged me out of bed just so you could give me shit? Nice."

Patrick didn't bother hiding his smile. "No. That's merely an added bonus."

"Do you have to practice to be such a prick?" Tate groused. "Is that why you always take so long in the bathroom? You're practicing in front of the mirror?"

"No practice necessary," the jock volleyed without missing a beat. "You inspire me."

—

* * *

Author's Note:

So if you've read my Asylum fic (which I've admittedly neglected while I've been busy with school and conventions), you'll undoubtedly recognize the names Ben dredged up. Any bets on who the baby-daddy really is? Is Ben the Son of Bloodyface? Or Dr. Harmon's kid? Will Ben ever know for sure? If you've read my first Murder House fic-season, you might remember a couple of Halloweens Ben had at the orphanage that might give you a hint.

Yes. That is how long I've been plotting that little gem. Four freakin years, over three fanfic seasons. Talk about a slow build. Happy Lent!

Next time: What the hell is Michael up to now?


	21. E3 Chapter 6 - A Grave Matter

(( _John the Revelator_ by Depeche Mode is a good song to listen to while reading the first portion of this chapter.))

* * *

Fog swirled as the black-cloaked figures moved through the cemetery. It was night but the mist caught the moonlight, making it seem brighter. Tombstones jutted in dark silhouettes, unreadable. The group of five stopped when they came to the vault where Jeremiah had been entombed.

Michael set his lantern down near the narrow marble entrance. Misty, to his left, kept her lantern in hand and stayed close to the young man. Not out of fear; she didn't want to miss anything. Constance was with him as well, as was Buck.

Michael stared at the tomb, then put a hand on it. It was a stoic piece of architecture, simple but elegant; cold.

"It's time," he said quietly. Then he glanced over his shoulder. "Bring the sacrifice."

Constance moved forward then, steering a shorter black-robed figure before her. "He's here," she said, giving the individual a shove.

The subsequent stumble the shove caused also dislodged the hood of their robe, revealing the face of one of the urchins she'd caught hovering around Father Jeremiah's cross like blowflies. The 12-year-old was drugged, barely able to keep his feet in the too-long robe.

Michael steadied the boy with a hand on his shoulder. Then he reeled the child into an embrace that put them both facing the small congregation. "What you are doing is important," he told the boy sincerely. Then: "Know peace."

He pulled Mandy's hunting knife from its sheath and, bracing the boy with a hand on his forehead, Michael pulled the sharp blade across his throat. The child made a gurgling, strangling sound and slowly sank to his knees. His hands scrabbled at his sliced flesh like he was trying to put it back together. The sharp blade had cut through his trachea, leaving a gaping wound that gushed red. The strength left him quickly and he fell to his side, where he slowly went limp.

Michael stooped and wiped his palm through the hot wound. He suffered a strong urge to lick the blood from his hand, but he restrained himself. This wasn't for him.

He rose and went to the crypt, his long robes stirring the fog as he moved. He put his hand on the door of the tomb once more. "It's time to wake up."

Michael shut his eyes because he could feel them trying to roll back under the amount of gathering psychic strain he was feeling. It was impossible to maintain decorum with his brain under so much pressure.

"Wake UP!"

He slammed his bloody fist into the door and the marble slab cracked. The crack stretched quickly from the center to the top and bottom at once. The heavy door split in two and fell to the ground. Marble dust settled and the swirling fog crept into the tomb.

Michael swayed unsteadily and Misty Day, who was nearest to him, put a hand out to make sure he didn't topple over. Black stars swam before the young man's eyes, trying to block his vision. It was sheer force of will that kept him from blacking out. Whatever he had channeled was potent and drained him more than he could have prepared for, even with the sacrifice.

As his vision slowly cleared, he saw movement in the dark recesses of the grave. Seconds later, Jeremiah stumbled out. His black funerary clothes were ashen with dust. He stumbled in the doorway, tripping over the broken marble. He dropped to a knee and had to put both hands on the ground to stop the world reeling.

Michael moved to his side, not exactly steady himself. He dropped down beside the resurrected man, falling as much as sitting, and he grabbed Jeremiah's shoulders. The erstwhile priest was shaking uncontrollably as his nervous system reawakened and his immune system went into overdrive reversing the effects of three days worth of decay.

"You'll be okay," Michael insisted, though he was reassuring himself as much as he was trying to comfort Jeremiah. "You're back with us. I brought you back."

"I was dead," Jeremiah croaked. His mouth was dry as sandpaper.

Michael got to his feet and tried to help the other man up. He was still weak from the experience though and it went so awkwardly, Misty felt obliged to lend a hand. She looked to Constance, but the other woman was just standing there, hugging her coat close around her body like a shield as she stared at the men.

"You were," Michael agreed as he found his sealegs. "You're back now."

"I was dead." Jeremiah was in shock.

Misty helped him to his feet next but he didn't rely on her for long. His system was repairing itself at an accelerated rate, healing and then overcompensating against future threats. His brain felt like it was on fire as his neural net mutated with the sheer amount of growth it had to do, in order to cope with everything he had experienced in the afterlife. He clutched at his head.

"Let's go home," Michael said to no one individual.

He took a couple of steps in the direction of the cemetery gates but when he saw Jeremiah wasn't following, he came back to him and put an arm around the man's shoulders so he could guide him out. The women followed, Constance silently bringing up the rear.

—

"I can't believe he did that," Tate boggled, watching the group as they disappeared into the thickening fog.

Patrick's attention shifted from them to the dead child they had left behind. "Sweet Mother Mary," he muttered.

The ghosts had arrived too late to interrupt the ritual. Michael had already cut the kid's throat when the pair showed up. It didn't bother Tate but Pat actually had a shred of conscience left. In life he had been an EMT and it translated to a strong impulse in death to assist the injured, even if they were beyond help.

"Give me a hand," he said, going over to the limp body on the ground.

Tate blinked at the other guy in confusion. "With what?"

Pat bent and scooped the bloody corpse up off the ground. "We're not just going to leave the poor kid here like this. Scavengers."

The teen gave him a funny look. "You want to keep him?" Tate had no problem with collecting dead bodies but he'd never known Pat to share the penchant.

"No!" Pat looked pained. "We're going to _bury_ him. There's a convenient grave right here. When I get him in there, I want you to help me put the door back up."

"Oh."

Patrick shook his head and ducked inside the tomb. Inside, he gently placed the dead boy in the narrow sarcophagus that Father Jeremiah had recently occupied. He tried not to think too much about whose grave it was before that, and what Michael might have done with the original occupant.

He arranged the boy's limbs in a comfortable position, though there was no need. It satisfied that basic impulse to help. He stepped back out of the tomb then and moved to grab one of the broken pieces of marble. "When I get this one up, grab the other one. If we wedge them together, they should hold."

Both sections were too heavy for an average, living individual to manage but the ghosts were able to get the two pieces crammed into the entryway in a manner that kept them together. It was hardly a lovely sight: Mud and blood smeared the outside of the visibly damaged door. But it would keep the scavengers out.

"I can't believe he brought that priest back from the dead," Tate boggled anew. He wasn't upset. He was just amazed. "Do you think maybe he wasn't actually dead?"

Patrick frowned thoughtfully and started off through the foggy cemetery in the direction the witches had gone, toward the gates that led out. There was no need to walk anywhere when they could shift freely through the foggy zone now but he wanted time to think so he headed that way.

"Anything's possible," he reasoned. "But I don't think he was vaulted up in that tomb for three days and survived it. If he wasn't dead going in, he would have been by now. No. Michael brought him back."

"Constance said he did it to himself that one time but I figured he was just, you know," he shrugged and trudged along beside the taller guy. He pulled his hands up into the sleeves of his sweater. "People die and the doctors bring 'em back. You know? But this. Wow."

"Yeah," Pat agreed, distracted. His expression was grim. "This can't be good."

"No shit," laughed Tate. "Anything that starts with killing a kid to bring back a dead Satanist definitely falls firmly into the 'fucked up' category. I think I saw a horror movie that started sorta like that once."

Patrick didn't share his humor. "I'm starting to think the Harmons have the right idea."

The teen squinted up at him. "How so?"

"Things are getting pretty weird around here. Maybe it's not such a bad idea to get out of Dodge."

Tate made a face and folded his arms against the weird way he felt at the thought of leaving. It was a stupid feeling. His whole existence, he wanted to fly free. Now that he could, the idea of going further than the cemetery made his stomach churn. He wasn't sure if the feeling was the fault of the house or his own weird mind.

"Where would you go?" he asked, to stop thinking about his non-existent stomach.

Pat thought for a few silent moments. Off in the distance, something howled.

"Maybe see how far north the fog goes," he said finally. "It would be nice to see the redwood forest again. Who knows? Maybe it even crosses the state line. I've never been to Oregon or Washington. I always wanted to visit Seattle."

Tate frowned. He didn't like this conversation. "Why?"

That earned him a sideways glance. "Why? It's an interesting place. I would've thought you of all people would want to go there. Isn't that where Kurt Cobain's from?"

"Yeah," the teen confirmed. "But it's not like I'd meet him if I went there."

"Never know. His ghost might be hanging around. He had a pretty dramatic death."

Tate was torn between wanting to talk about his hero and wanting to stay unhappy. "I can't just go to Seattle. Violet's not there and neither is Beau. Or Mrs. Nora. Who'll look after her when she gets sad, if I go?" He blinked fast because the thought of her crying over her baby without him to help her made his eyes water. "Maybe you can just take off but I can't. If I could, I would've gone with Violet."

He smudged his lashes with the edges of his sleeves then folded his arms again. When he glanced Pat's way, the guy was looking at him funny.

"Neither is a good candidate for a road trip," admitted Patrick. "Violet would probably love Seattle, though. She'd go with you." They walked in silence a bit then he added: "Leaving for a while isn't the same as leaving forever."

"Yes, it is," Tate asserted heatedly. "Time runs funny sometimes. You know that. What happens if you go to Seattle and by the time you get back..." He stalled on an adequately horrific scene for him to return to.

"And what?" prompted Pat, grabbing the opportunity. "Something bad has happened? There's nothing going to happen here that I personally can do something about. All this?" He waved an arm. "Is beyond us. Whatever's going to happen here, it's going to happen whether we're at ground zero or not."

He was probably right but that didn't help Tate's mood. "If I went anywhere, I'd go where Violet is." His shoulders drooped. "I wish I could call her."

Pat sighed in frustration. "So go be with her. You could go and come back the same damned day, if you really don't want to be gone that long. You're a fucking _ghost,_ for God's sake. "

"I don't know where they went," Tate countered defensively. "You have to know where you're going before you can go there. Otherwise you'll end up in a wall or a toilet or something."

"You're hopeless," the jock decided. "I'm heading home."

He shifted through space, leaving the foggy street behind. The familiar walls of the old mansion faded into view, solidifying around him. It was a mode of travel he had grown accustomed to over the years, to the point that it was hard to imagine doing without the shortcut. Just returning home from the cemetery would have taken three times as long, on foot. Moving from the hall to the downstairs great room, to the bathroom on the third floor...they were all just a thought away.

It was one of the few perks Pat could appreciate about being dead.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

A prize to those of you who accurately predicted that Jeremiah wouldn't stay dead. His resurrection was inspired in part by George Romero's _Living Dead_ series of films.

There have been many times when I was writing this years-long fic where certain twists and turns surprised me. Strange as it may sound, I don't plan most of this out. I have a loose idea where the story's going but scenes like this I don't know the outcome of till I'm done writing. Constance's reaction surprised me. I guess I expected she would be happy Jeremiah was back.

Next time: It's the last chapter of Ep 3 and things are getting strange. Episode 4 will hit the week after that, in which Michael starts to assert his dominion as he searches for some holy and unholy relics. And we'll see some old, familiar faces too.


	22. E3 Chapter 7 - Dead Man Walking

"That's not Jeremiah."

Constance's words were emphatic but not loud. She and Michael were in the kitchen of her house. Both were on their feet and neither was happy. It was the morning after the ritual in the cemetery. The sun was bright, too cheerful for the dark conversation taking place.

"Yes, it is," Michael insisted. "He's just getting over being dead for three days."

"I found him in the garden this morning, eating some animal he killed with his bare hands," the blonde woman flared intensely. "It still had the fur on it!" She viciously lit a cigarette and slammed the lighter down on the counter. Then she leveled a cold look at her grandson. "Bein' dead isn't something a person can just 'get over'. He's not a Goddamned fish. And whatever he is? He isn't Jeremiah."

Michael's lower lip tensed in an unhappy little frown that he tried to restrain. A whirlwind of thoughts and feelings boiled inside him. "I'll show you," he said. His tone was half posture, half threat. "I'll show you, Mother Constance!'

His anger reached critical mass and he lashed out, punching a chair as he stormed out of the room. The yellow padded seat hit the floor hard. He kept going, right out of the house. He needed to talk to Aunt Fiona.

—

Despite the temper tantrum, Constance wasn't concerned with Michael's ire. The situation with Jeremiah was too distracting. She had noticed differences immediately, on the way home, but she had attributed them to shock. But finding him in the garden eating the neighborhood strays was beyond what shock did to a person.

There were other things, too, though not as extreme. Little tell-tale signs that she couldn't overlook. His presence put her on edge. Whatever Michael had summoned up that was riding around in Jeremiah's body, she was sure it wasn't the priest. She didn't want to think about what had become of the man's soul, or where it might be. That thought was too dwarfing.

She was at a loss as to what to do about the situation. Michael refused to acknowledge anything was wrong. It was like he couldn't see the twitchy way Jeremiah moved. He didn't seem to notice that the resurrected man barely spoke to anyone about anything. The teen seemed to genuinely believe Jeremiah just needed some rest, to recover from being crucified and brought back to life.

Constance decided to go next door and see if Travis was free. She badly needed a distraction. She stepped out onto the porch and paused to light a cigarette.

"Where are you going?"

Jeremiah's quiet voice came from behind her, so close and unexpected, it made her jump. Her cigarette lighter fell to the wooden deck of the porch with a clatter and her hand flew to her chest where her fingers curled on the collar of her flowing blue kaftan.

"Jeremiah, you shouldn't go sneakin' up on people," she chided, trying to sound genial despite being rattled. "You startled me."

He looked at her for a moment then bent to pick up the lighter she dropped. He held it out to her. She hesitated before taking it.

"Where are you going?" he repeated.

"Next door," she responded. She lit her cigarette and stuffed the lighter into the pack. "I want to see my boys and I have some business with one of the other ghosts over there."

"I'll go with you."

She exhaled a large cloud of smoke then made a dismissing wave at him. "No. You stay here. Michael ran off in another of his fits. Someone should be here when he comes back."

"Where did he go?"

Constance wrapped an arm around her middle, only glancing at Jeremiah before looking to the Montgomery mansion again. She didn't like making eye contact with him. His unblinking stare unnerved her even more than the blunt, plodding questions.

"I really don't know," she said wearily. "Probably to my sister's place. He's practically moved in with her."

"I can find him."

She sucked on her cigarette hard, making the ember long and bright angry red. "Fine. You'll have to walk, though. He took the car."

The ex-priest stood there for an awkward moment then headed down the steps and off toward the street. She watched him go and hugged herself a little tighter.

—

The car Michael had driven to the hotel was parked haphazardly in front of the hotel, half on the sidewalk. Several crows had settled on it and they cawed noisily at Jeremiah as he passed. One ruffled its feathers. None actually threatened the ex-priest, though. Their aggression was a reaction to fear. They could sense something wasn't right with the man.

Jeremiah knew it, too. After his resurrection, his heart never started beating again. He had taken his pulse and held his breath and exerted himself but nothing he did caused the organ to work faster or at all. The only thing he learned from the experiments was that he didn't need to breathe, either, unless he wanted to speak.

The man knew if his heart wasn't beating, his blood was not circulating. If his lungs weren't working and no blood pumping oxygen to his brain, he should not be moving. Yet he was. He didn't need to eat or drink normal food, either, but he still did those things because he didn't want to give Constance another reason to look at him the way she had been so often since his return. The incident with the stray dog-thing was as irreversible as it was inexplicable. The creature had wandered into the front yard with an injury to its left flank. The sight of the glistening red meat had set off an impulse to devour that he had no time to fight. He was on the mongrel before he even knew what he was doing.

And Constance had seen.

Her reaction to him hurt but he understood her revulsion. He couldn't explain himself. He was no danger to her but that hardly mattered. He knew Michael's attempt to bring him back to life was only a partial success. Looking in the mirror, Jeremiah looked no different on the outside but in life, he never would have done what he did that morning.

She had refused to share her bed with him ever since he came back. She insisted that he return to spending his nights in the guest bedroom, though he hadn't slept in there in years. She wasn't coy about it either. She told him he "reeked of the grave". He had, of course, showered after returning but that didn't change her stance.

He let himself inside the old hotel and looked around the lobby.

"Speak of the devil," Fiona purred from where she was tucked into her favorite wingback, near the fire pit.

She was flanked by Michael, who rose from his chair when he saw Jeremiah. Cordelia was to her other side and Misty Day took up a whole couch with her various wrappings and a heap of what appeared to be dirty laundry beside her.

"Father Jeremiah," greeted Michael. "You have excellent timing. Fiona was just explaining how you could help us."

The dark-haired man crossed the room to join the small circle. His black shirt and pants fit right in with the coven's color scheme. "I'm not a priest anymore."

Michael looked at him in puzzlement. "So?"

Jeremiah wondered if he was being strange again. Too often, people looked at him like Michael was doing. He thought carefully before he spoke next, just to be sure. "You don't have to call me 'Father Jeremiah' anymore."

The younger man's confusion eased and he laughed, but it lacked humor. "I suppose you're right. It's not like you're my father."

"You brought him back from the dead," Fiona pointed out. "Call him whatever you want to."

Michael was tired of the subject, so he ignored her. "Jeremiah, I need you to fetch Mother Constance's body from where ever that little shit Tate's hidden it. Bring her body back here. He's not going to just let you have her, so be ready for a fight. Do you think you can handle him on your own?"

"I'll go with him," Misty volunteered. "I'm goin' that way anyways. Gotta see about puttin' together Buck's funeral. Collectin' two bodies is as good as one."

Jeremiah was fairly certain he wouldn't need the help but he saw no point in being rude to the swamp witch. It wouldn't hurt to have her along.

"Good," Michael agreed when no one objected. "Bring both of the bodies back here. We'll do a resurrection at a funeral."

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

End episode 3. Cue music, roll credits, etc.

This chapter brought to you by Pet Semetary and the number 666.

Next time: Seven! The number seven is coming heavily into play. Seven ancient relics. Seven deadly sins. Seven holy paths to hell...Sorry. Broke off into Iron Maiden there. Though I guess it's not entirely inappropriate.

Anyway. We'll see some old, familiar faces soon, too—more than one! So tune in next time when American Horror Story: Armageddon continues with: "Seven".


	23. E4 Chapter 1 - Seven

Ancient stories tell of seven holy items that hold back the days of Armageddon.

One of the relics was the Seal of Abaddon. The first seal of its kind, it held back the Destroyer; the Angel of Death. The next was the Seal of Samael and it restrained the Archangel of Death, limiting his power as surely as it had that of his brother. The Pentacle of Ashtaroth curtailed that Dominatrix of Hell, strangling her influence over mankind. Belial's Shroud was a straitjacket for the ancient beast. The Chalice of the Leviathan kept that Titan submerged and sleeping. The Rod of Wormwood stopped the wounded angel's poisonous blood spreading from the sarcophagus he lay in since his fall to Earth.

The final item was originally another seven items in itself: The Daggers of Armageddon. Holy knives crafted long ago in a monastery with the sole purpose of destroying any Antichrist that might rise to power. They had been used more than once over the years and four were destroyed during those struggles. The remaining three Pietre had held for a time, before losing them in a complicated game of intrigue.

It was Pietre who told Michael about the relics. As soon as he knew about them, he knew he had to have them. The problem lay in finding them. Again, Michael found himself frustrated at not being able to sense something out there in the world, just like with the gasoline. Knowing the name of something and knowing what it 'felt' or 'looked' like was not the same. There weren't any pictures of the relics so he couldn't even go off of that. Pietre described the Daggers of Armageddon well, though, and that was where Michael decided to start.

Even better: Pietre knew who had them last. He had last known them to be in the hands of two witches who he believed headed for France back in the mid-2000's or so. Fiona reached out to the coven in Paris but the spirit messenger would need time to track down the Supreme there. Fiona had no doubt Mme Boniface was indeed there; all of the witches left alive in the post-apocalyptic decay made contact with one another regularly. It just took more magical effort now that public telephone service was a thing of the past.

Those wheels were already in motion before Buck passed away. It was merely coincidence that his funeral happened the same day that the first of the relics turned up in New Jerusalem.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

The funeral had been a homespun one, beautiful in its way. Buck would have been happy with the send-off. Misty Day led the service and had overseen the decorations the village women made. His casket was unfinished pine, yellow and new, hand-crafted by the man's own nephew, Vince. The choir sang. A young boy did a very poignant solo that sounded absolutely angelic in the vaulted chapel.

After the service the community held a potluck supper. Someone brought an ice chest of homebrewed beer—Buck's favorite orange-label. The crafter, a red-headed guy named Adam, announced he was assigning the beer the official name: "Buck's Orange". His hand-made label wasn't much to look at but the townsfolk appreciated the sentiment, and the free beer.

When the service was over, a walking funeral procession carried Buck to the cemetery where he was set on a specially-made pyre and lit on fire, in accordance with his wishes. He had a fear in life of someone tampering with his corpse post-mortem. Though his soul wasn't around to see it, Misty made sure his wishes were adhered to.

Many stayed the whole duration of the fire but it would burn for hours so Michael returned to the church, accompanied by several others. Cleanup work in the chapel commenced, though Michael wasn't participating. He was going over one of Pietre's apocalyptic scrolls for the umpteenth time, trying to decipher where the Pentacle of Ashtaroth might be. He was most curious about her, mostly because she was a she.

He knew from his studies that female angels were a thing but it was strange to think he might actually meet one. From what he could sort out, all of the relics were tied to angels, with the possible exception of the Leviathan. There were too many contradicting texts about what that thing was, and even more man-made fiction pieces that made it even harder to understand. It could be anything from a multi-headed water dragon to a kraken. Or a whale-shark. Or the Loch Ness Monster.

The rest, though, were clearly celestials. Of them all, Samael should be easiest to connect with but Jeremiah had lost his holy pendant when he died. No one knew what happened to it. It just seemed to have disappeared. Jeremiah said he hadn't heard or felt Samael since his death, either. He couldn't remember anything about being dead so he couldn't say what had happened then.

There was movement in Michael's peripheral that caught his attention. Someone had approached him. Looking up from the scroll, he found himself looking at the cloaked figure of Evangelina. She had her hood up but her angular, pale features were unmistakable.

"Oh, hello," he said, rolling the scroll up. "I thought you left with the Order."

She pressed her lips together briefly. "No. I didn't want to go back. I hope it's all right that I'm here."

He smiled. "As long as your people don't accuse me of kidnapping you, you're welcome."

She echoed his smile and took a step closer. "They won't. I...I just wanted to say I'm sorry. About Buck. He was a nice man. He'll be missed by many."

Michael's expression softened. Her soft voice and sad eyes made her prettier to him. "He was a pillar of the community," he said, aware of how canned that sounded. It was true, though. "Are you planning to live here in New Jerusalem then?"

She flushed self-consciously and straightened her cape. "I.. I was. Am. Yes."

"You know Jeremiah's back?" There was probably a more tactful way to say that but Michael didn't feel like stalling the conversation searching for words.

Evangelina glanced away. "He didn't die?"

Michael watched her, finding her reaction curious. "No. He did. I brought him back."

Her eyes were on him again. "You did?"

He smiled, liking the undivided attention. "I did. He's helping Pietre right now, in the back room. Will that be weird for you? Seeing him in town?"

She shook her head and twin lines appeared between her thin brows. She was older than she looked and it showed when she frowned. "No. I said my peace. The Order acknowledged my divorce." She shook her head and folded her hands before her to keep them still but she expressed with them anyway. "I don't even know him, really. We've met a handful of times in over thirty years. I don't blame him for not coming back. I...feel the same way. I don't want to go back either. Not ever."

Even more curious. "Was it that bad?"

She pressed her lips together to check the bitter words that sprang to them. "Yes," she said carefully. "For me. It's not that the Order is...They have good intentions and they do know many things. It's why we've survived. I am just...not... I'm not like them. I'm meant for... I don't know. Something else."

Michael tipped his head. He wanted to ask her more about her previous life but the door to the back hall opened just then and Pietre came out. The sleeves of his black silk shirt were rolled up to his elbows and his impeccable ponytail had a few hairs astray. He looked proud.

"She's awake," he smiled at Michael.

"Already?" Michael grinned and then turned back to Evangelina. "You have to see."

The young woman stammered a response but he was already hurrying for the hall. She followed behind, not sure what was happening. Pietre's self-satisfied smile told her nothing as she passed him. He brought up the rear, shutting the door behind them.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

Episode 4, Seven, is so-named because of the many references to the number seven in holy texts. Seven's a popular religious number and is significant in numerology. So is thirteen and I'll be playing with that number as well. For example, if you total up the number of relics (seven) and you count one dagger of Armageddon as part of that seven, add the remaining six daggers and you have... thirteen!

I will be messing with your head that way a lot this episode, so keep your eyes peeled. It's probably proof I've been spending too much time in Math class.

 _Seven_ is also the name of a pretty decent psycho-thriller starring Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman.

This weekend I'll be at a writer's conference, trying to find an agent to represent my stuff. Hopefully I'll get someone who understands and appreciates horror of this breed. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea. I'm glad it's yours, though.


	24. E4 Chapter 2 - By the Sea

Hours away, Violet sat on the sandy shore outside the beach house she and her parents had picked out. They had plenty of choices: The end of the world had driven humans from the prime real estate. The fog had settled over Long Beach and brought with it the plague of zombies and strange beasts that had befallen the rest of California. Worse, the sea also vomited up strange creatures, making it unsafe for mortals.

For ghosts like the Harmons, it was perfectly safe. Most of the creatures that preyed on the living avoided them. Even monsters, it seemed, feared what was beyond the grave. The only things bold enough to bother Violet as she sat sketching were insects and seagulls. Those pesky birds apparently hadn't gotten the memo that they were living in a wasteland. They expected handouts even though it had been years since crowds of humans had roamed the beaches with food.

Being at the beach wasn't quite as nice as Violet had hoped. The fog choked everything, which rendered the nearby ocean into nothing more than background sound. Granted it was something different to hear, but without the sight of the waves rolling in, it was just white noise.

Joshua sat nearby in his bouncer seat, calmly watching the seagull flock. He had been abnormally mellow in the days since they had arrived at the beach. The sound of the surf lulled him. Violet wondered if it was because it reminded him of his mother's heartbeat, but she knew it would hurt her parents if she were to say it aloud, so she kept the observation to herself.

She finished her seashell sketch and closed the notebook she was working in. She thought about taking her baby brother for a walk further inland. She liked pointing out the various plants and natural wonders. As a child, her parents had worried about her getting lost and the big cities never had much by way of nature to explore near where she had lived. She had no concerns about getting lost now, since she needed no sleep or food and could will herself back to the beach house whenever she felt like it.

She would never say it where her parents could hear, but she didn't mind being dead now that the world had opened up. Sure, it was foggy and foreign, but the new species of florae and faunae were really no different than any other life form, she reckoned. The next evolution of the planet.

Violet pushed herself to her knees and smiled at Joshua. "Hey," she said.

Then something moving in the fog distracted her. A hazy outline was coming closer from the direction of the ocean. She gently scooped her brother up and put him on a shoulder, eyes on the figure. It resolved itself into the form of a person: A young man.

He was hunched slightly under the weight of a big, dirty canvas bag he hauled over one shoulder with both hands. He headed up the beach, cutting close to the property the Harmons had usurped. His destination was the house next door.

Violet's curiosity was piqued. The guy was dressed in a heavy overcoat though Violet didn't think the temperature was cold enough to warrant it. He wore dark pants and had shoulder-length black hair in need of washing. His strides were purposeful despite the shifting sand and the weight he carried with him.

"Let's get you inside," Violet murmured to the baby in her arms.

She wanted to investigate the stranger up close.

—

After Violet dropped Joshua off with her mother, the teen went to the beach house next door. The air had cooled with the approach of evening, causing insects to start their nightly songs. The steady sound of the fog-smothered surf was like a disembodied voice, potent but invisible through the thick haze. Scrubby beach plants clung to life at the fringes where the sand stabilized near the foundation of the Prussian blue house.

Like the ocean, Violet was invisible, but she still found herself sneaking out of habit. She let herself into the house through the front, finding it unlocked. It took a little searching, but she finally found the stranger in the kitchen. He had dumped the rucksack on the central table. Candles stuffed into bottles and candle nubs clustered on plates provided him light and cast the room in an eerie glow.

The young man had shed his coat and dropped it over the back of a nearby chair. He had both hands on the table and was hunkered over the sack with a sour look on his face. Then, with a deep sigh, he tugged open the zipper. His look of distaste growing, he reached in and with some effort hauled out a corpse.

This was a corpse like none Violet had seen. In her time being dead, she had seen a great many bodies, though admittedly most of them were in online photos. Her sense of morbid curiosity had grown exponentially after she learned of her own death. It had snuck up on her so seamlessly, for weeks she hadn't even known she was dead. Discovering she lived in a house haunted by roughly 30 ghosts gave her a lot to think about over the years.

This body was like nothing she had seen. At first, she thought it was a large fish or perhaps a diseased seal. The flesh was slimy and black with a greenish tinge. Only it was too big to be a seal, and it had arms and legs. When the stranger rolled the body over, the face was a distorted mess of pulped skin and bone, slicked up with a black ichor that Violet assumed was blood. Its face was beaten in.

The young man pushed up the sleeves of his faded navy sweatshirt, then pulled a knife from the sheath at his belt. He used the nicked blade to slice the creature open from neck to pelvis, drawing Violet's attention to the fact that the thing was male. Blackish-green guts erupted from the slit belly, pulling the girl's eyes back up off the thing's withered genitalia.

"Oh, sick!" Violet exclaimed in morbid fascination as the innards slithered over the table. Some of the small intestines fell to the floor with a wet splat.

The young man stifled a retch and then steeled himself. A moment later he shoved his hand into the incision he'd made. Looking up to the ceiling, he dug around inside, then pulled hard. Seconds later, he had the thing's stomach in his hand. He dropped it on the table and carved it open. A nasty, smelly mess spilled out.

Violet took a step back, holding her nose. It had always bothered her that she felt the need to breathe, as a dead person, but she did. She had experimented quite a bit with her own limits back in the early days of being dead. If she held her breath, some weird part of her would eventually decide she had to pass out. She had even succeeded in hanging herself to death once but woke in an awkward situation with the twins, Troy and Bryan, drawing on her face.

So she was stuck enduring the stomach-turning stench the dead thing's last meal put off. The young man poked around in the mess with the end of the knife, finally spearing out a ring of keys.

"Ha!" he crowed. He grabbed a towel from a nearby drawer and scooped the key ring up with it. "Fuck you, bitch! You only _thought_ you were gonna get away with that."

He polished the keys off and, when he was sure it was as clean as he could get it without running water, he shoved it into his pocket. Then he wiped the blade off on the towel, then tossed the towel over the dead creature's face.

"What the hell is that thing?"

Violet couldn't repress the urge to ask any longer, even though she knew suddenly being heard would undoubtedly freak the guy out. She made sure she was across the table from him when she spoke, just in case he decided to get stabby.

Startled, the young man scuttled back, knife at the ready as he looked around for the source of her voice. Seeing her suddenly on the far side of the table made him do a visible double-take. He pointed the large knife at her.

"Who are you? What're you doing in here?"

"Relax," Violet said, holding her hands up to show him she was unarmed. "My name's Violet. I came in through the front door. You left it unlocked, genius. If you don't want company, you might want to think about changing that."

He blinked at her rapidly, digesting the fact that this strange long-haired girl just insulted him. He kept the knife pointed at her. "Nobody lives here but me. Nobody has for, like, years."

"My family and I are staying next door," she said dismissively, as if this was a regular winter visit. "What's your name?"

Her response only confused him more. "It's not safe to stay here."

"You're staying here," Violet pointed out.

"That's because I'm from here," the young man said, waving the knife at her.

She shrugged off his explanation and looked at the corpse, uninterested in his knife. "What is this thing? Did you kill it?"

He stared at her then slowly lowered the knife. "I call them mermaids," he said hesitantly. It had been a while since he spoken to another person. "I know they don't have fish tails, but their faces are pretty fishy." He glanced down and amended: "Well, not this one. I bashed his face in because he ate my keys."

"Why did it eat your keys?" This was the most interesting thing Violet had heard in a while, so she wanted the guy to keep going, even if he still hadn't told her his name.

"Because they eat everything," he said, sounding impatient. "Why are you here? And don't give me any shit about being here with your family. Nobody comes here anymore. Not since the fog brought the sea monsters and zombies."

"My family does," Violet said casually. She was trying to sound friendly, but it occurred to her that she might be trying too hard and possibly coming across as creepy. "Why don't you put down the knife and talk to me? I mean, it's obvious I'm not armed. Can't we be friends?"

He still looked suspicious, but he finally put his knife back in its sheath. "You're lucky I'm not some crazy raider," he said, still feeling the need to see some sign of intimidation from her. "You know what they'd do to a girl like you?"

Violet knew what reaction he expected and probably should've acted it out, but she couldn't help herself. "Nothing compared to what I'd do to them if they tried," she smirked. "I didn't get this far down damnation alley by being fragile." Then, more seriously: "I'm betting neither did you. How about this. You tell me your secret of survival, and I'll tell you mine."

His brow dipped briefly and then he tipped his head. "Okay. Sure."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

This was a slight deviation from the chapter I had planned. Violet thought you guys needed to know some stuff.

Her new friend is partially inspired by Carl from the Walking Dead series. His catch-o-the-day was largely inspired by H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos. Just recently I started re-watching the Mystery Inc series, which is heavily steeped in Lovecraft lore. I had to tap the master.

Next chapter we'll see what Tate's been up to.


	25. E4 Chapter 3 - Questionable Decisions

Tate was the one to man the door when Jeremiah and Misty Day arrived. He figured they were there for his mother's body again but this time, the teen was harboring a recent grudge against her. The reason had already faded from his memory, but the feelings remained, and he never questioned his feelings. That was Dr. Harmon's job.

When the witch rang the bell, Tate opened the door to them.

"Just the person we came ta see," Misty Day exclaimed when she saw him. The bones she had tied in her long gray hair rattled.

Tate peered cautiously through his curly bangs at the odd pair. "And here I thought you were coming after Constance again."

The witch smiled. "You make it sound so sinister. We want to restore her to life."

"Last I heard, she didn't want to be 'restored'," Tate pointed out.

He glanced at Jeremiah, but the man just stood there, a silent witness to the conversation. The guy was acting strangely in Tate's estimation, though it wasn't any one thing he was doing. It was a whole bunch of little things. The man didn't smile, which was unusual. He hadn't said a word, not even hello, which was also unusual. Jeremiah had always been friendly and chatty toward Tate, in any form Tate had taken around him. The holy man didn't seem angry, either. He was just sort of… there.

Being resurrected didn't seem to be doing the guy any favors. Tate was glad that he, personally, had evolved when he died. Being a living zombie didn't look fun.

"I can't blame her," he admitted, shifting his attention back to Misty. "She probably doesn't want to end up like the priest."

Did the guy flinch? If so, the look was gone so quickly, Tate couldn't be certain.

"What is goin' to happen to your mama is nothin' like what happened to him," Misty asserted in her stilted southern drawl. "Michael's work is unique to him. Our ritual is designed specifically for _our_ kind."

"Your kind," Tate echoed. He leaned on the doorframe casually. "I always knew my mom was a witch when I was a kid. I just never knew how literally." He snickered to himself. Then: "Okay. Sure. You can have her."

Misty couldn't conceal her surprise at the easy capitulation. It made her leery. "We can?"

"Sure," Tate said with a smile. "Knock yourselves out. Just don't expect me to help you. She's up in the attic with Beau."

He vanished then, leaving the pair to head up to the attic by themselves.

—

They had to contend with Beauregard when Misty homed in on where Constance's body was located, with a spell of divination. As soon as she neared the steamer trunk, Beau charged at her. She was quick enough to side-step his first lunge, but he came at her again, in his rambunctious way. There was a determined edge to the way he dove at her, though, that had nothing to do with play.

Misty could sense the ghost's true nature, beneath the hostile display. It put her in a bind. She couldn't bring herself to hex someone so pure, but she couldn't have him bowling her over either. So she hit him with a fascinator spell instead.

It was a quirky cantrip of her own design, invented to entertain orphaned children who showed up at Mme Robichaux's Academy in New Orleans, when the world was starting its rapid decline. The spell was like a daydream: It ferreted out the target's desires and played it in their minds like it was real. She wasn't sure it would work on the dead, but the ghost stopped his attack and sat drooling and smiling.

After that it was just a matter of finding which trunk Constance's remains were in. Jeremiah did the rest.

Tate watched as they carried the blanket-wrapped body away. He expected his mother to show up but when he saw Michael's car parked haphazardly out in front of her house, he could guess that the local god was over there distracting her while his minions did his dirty work.

"Minions," Tate scoffed and locked the door behind them once they were gone.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was scoffing at. Something about the idea of the other guy having minions bothered him though. It seemed unfair to Tate that Michael should get minions. Tate never had minions or anybody who wanted to do things for him. Nobody would have ever built a church for him. As far as Tate knew, he didn't even have a grave stone.

Tate suffered a few long moments of jealousy before realizing he didn't want minions. They would bother him. He was happiest in small groups, preferably one-on-one. He could fully absorb the experience of being with a person that way. Individuals were like intricate puzzles, with all kinds of buttons and secrets. Crowds were just obnoxious.

When sulking got dull, the teen's thoughts turned to Violet. He missed her and wondered if she missed him too. He wished for the hundred-millionth time that phones worked. He eventually wound up on the hard couch in the great room, curled up with his hands tucked between his knees. He lost track of how long he was there, but he stirred when the room changed around him.

Chad's arrival was precipitated by the shift in décor. He entered the room, bearing a large box marked "ornaments". Tate sighed heavily.

"Nobody asked you," Chad answered back cheerfully. He placed the box on the floor near the coffee table then straightened. "If you're going to be in here, you have to help. Otherwise, go mope elsewhere."

"It's still November," Tate protested.

"It's December tenth," corrected Chad. "Well past time to get the tree up. This year I won't have Vivien's kitschy shit to contend with so we're doing things my way."

"We always do things your way," muttered Tate. He picked at a bit of dead skin on his thumb.

"You don't have to be here," Chad reminded, undaunted. He left the room to go get more festive decorations from the basement, humming _Jingle Bells_ as he went.

Tate lay there a bit longer, trying to decide what to do. He thought about retreating to his room, but he didn't feel like laying in bed. He wished he still had his blood crows, but they had all flown off as soon as they learned how to fly. All except the sickly one, which had died and joined its brethren in the back yard.

He had liked having pets. He had never had any as a kid. Probably because of Beau, he reasoned. Beau would accidentally hurt a small, furry thing. Now, though, Tate was reasonably confident he could bring a pet of some sort into the house without fear. Not necessarily a typical cat or dog but maybe one of the mutant things. That way it could hold its own against Thaddeus if he decided he didn't like the pet.

Something about that plan didn't feel quite right but he didn't waste time analyzing what. He knew whatever it was, it couldn't make a mess or break things in the house. It was probably best, in fact, if it wasn't even alive. That way nothing could kill it and Tate wouldn't have to remember to feed it. Having a living dead pet would also mean it wouldn't poop on the $5,000 Arabian rug that Mrs. Nora cherished.

Inspired, Tate set out to find himself a new pet.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm rounding the last stretch in my spring semester at college so I've been short on time lately. Please please forgive the loose editing on this chapter. I'll polish it up later after the heat's off.

So I guess Tate's getting himself a pet. An undead one. So not in my story outline. Hopefully next chapter things will be back on course.


	26. E4 Chapter 4 - Tremors

Two days later, Michael was leading Evangelina into the guts of his church.

"She and her twin are both witches, but Mother Constance turned her back on the Coven years ago," Michael explained expertly. "There are several other witches from the Louisiana Coven here, too. I'm sure you'll meet them soon."

Though Evangelina wasn't entirely sure she wanted to do that, she smiled when Michael did anyway. "Why did they want her brought back to life?"

"There's a prophecy," Michael half-answered.

The room Pietre ushered them into was lit only by candles clustered in the corners of the multipurpose area. On the floor was a broad circle of power in the center of which was drawn a pentagram, the points of which each had been designated with the name of a fallen angel. Constance sat on the floor at the center of the pentagram, clutching a blanket around herself. Misty Day sat beside her and was speaking to her in low tones meant only for the recently resurrected woman.

"Mother Constance," Michael said pleasantly.

Her head turned toward him, and she peered up at him through her messy, flat hair. It had been years since he had seen her alive and even longer since he had seen her with her hair down. She looked like a stranger. She had lost the youth she had granted herself, restored to essentially the same point at which she'd died. She hadn't seen her face yet but she had seen her hands and was rubbing them over and over, trying to iron out the lines and smudge off the age spots.

"Why did you… do this to me?" Each word she said was forced out, lacking volume but intense despite that fact.

"What? Give you life?" Michael answered back, wounded by her reception. He forced a laugh he didn't feel. "That's just like you. Most people if they got killed and got brought back to life, they'd be _grateful_!" His temper flared, killing his smile. "I didn't do it, anyway! The Coven did! God! I'm so sick of you blaming me for _everything_!"

The world began to sway, like they were all standing on the deck of a ship that was rocking side to side. It was a strange sensation that quickly worsened till it was impossible to keep one's feet. Evangelina stumbled into Michael, who caught her mostly by accident when he raised his arms instinctively to protect his face.

Dust sifted down from the ceiling as the timbers buckled and compressed. The sound of creaking wood and breaking glass came from all around, not just in the church but outside as well. More noise joined the cacophony: The sounds of screeching metal and shuddering mortar; the screams of people. The floor lurched and bounced violently.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the disturbance stopped.

"Earthquake," Constance said dazedly, still sitting on the floor.

Evangelina righted herself with a muted apology. Pietre, who had taken up a position in the doorway, made a sour face. "I think it best if we move outside."

He didn't wait to see if anyone took his advice. He just left.

Misty Day got herself to her feet with some effort. Michael looked down at Constance and almost offered her his hand but then he remembered her words just before the quake. Then he, too, just left. Evangelina hesitated only a moment then followed him.

"Come on," Misty encouraged the woman on the floor. "It's a long way up but you can do it."

"God!" Constance bleated, rolling her eyes even as they filled with tears. She clutched the blanket tight around her shoulders. "Leave me alone! Just…" She lost her vehemence quickly, too drained from her experience to work up a proper wrath. "Leave me alone."

"We shouldn't be in here if in an aftershock hits," the witch said.

"Then go!" Constance rallied one last burst of energy before sagging into herself. "I've died in an earthquake before. I'm happy to go again."

"Ya don't mean that," Misty dismissed and tried to take her by the arm.

Constance pulled away from her and tugged the blanket closer, using it like a shield. She put her back to the shawl-covered witch. Misty regarded her for a moment then sighed heavily. Then she hit the woman with a sleep spell. Constance collapsed.

"And I thought Fiona was stubborn," Misty clucked. "You do seem ta like makin' things hard on folks."

She grabbed the blanket and used it as a litter to drag Constance, in nothing but a thin nightgown, out of the church.

…

The earthquake registered at the beach as well, rattling cupboards and toppling a book case in the beach house the Harmons were borrowing. It startled Joshua, sending him on an inconsolable crying jag that only worsened whenever Vivien tried to put him down or pass him to someone else.

Unable to help, Violet's next thoughts were of the boy next door. He called himself Jett though she suspected that was a name he'd given himself. His tale of survival was dubious. By his account, he essentially survived the apocalypse by dumb luck, outliving even his parents through a series of harrowing and strange encounters. He was in his early 20's now and Violet didn't trust his luck to hold out. She excused herself and went to check on him.

The quake had disrupted the fog some, enough to allow limited visibility but the teen found she could still move about freely. She could see Jett's beach house through the haze. A large crack had opened in one side and dumped broken drywall on the sand. Her concern for his well-being was quickly abated when she saw him on the beach, standing facing the surf and shielding his eyes from the uncommon burst of sunlight through the thinned mist. Dead fish littered the beach. Scavenger birds pecked eagerly at them and one another.

"Hey!" Violet greeted as she joined him. "That was one hell of a quake."

"Yeah," he agreed with a quick look her way. "I'd ask if your family's okay, but I guess you guys are pretty quake-proof, huh?"

She flashed a tight smile. "Sort of. The baby's freaking out. Sucks because we can't explain to him what's happened. You know?"

Jett nodded but he was distracted by the rare view of the ocean. "I can't imagine what it must be like, for him."

Violet looked in the direction he was looking and saw what was distracting him. "What the hell is _that_?"

Out in the mist, something large could be seen silhouetted beyond the dark waves. It was the size of a small sailboat, but it had long arms that it used to pull itself through the water.

"Beats me," Jett said. "Never seen anything like it. It's too big to be a mermaid."

"Maybe mermaids are the baby forms."

"I don't think they evolve," he said. "They're not Pokémon."

Violet watched the thing in silence for a few moments. Then: "You have a boat, right?"

Jett eyed her suspiciously. "Yeeeah. So?"

She arched her brows. "So, let's go see what it is."

The young man's dubious look turned incredulous. Then came sudden clarity. "You may be death-proof but I'm not."

That killed a little of her enthusiasm. "Fine. But after it leaves, take me out there. I want to learn how to operate a boat."

"Bossy much?" Jett pulled his coat closed against the strengthening wind. It howled down the beach and made a low whistling sound through the open side of the beach house he had been staying in. "Whatever happened to please and thank you?"

Violet offered him a crooked smile. "Sorry. I…share a house with a lot of bossy people." She tried again. "Do you think you could take me out there after the Loch Ness monster leaves? Please?"

He side-eyed her then relented with a quirky, dry smile of his own. "Yeah, okay. But you're manning the harpoon."

—

* * *

Author's Note:

When I was just getting into horror movies, there was a rash of B-grade horror films on cable and in the early video stores that were so cheesy, nobody bothered keeping them away from kids. The ones about maritime horror were especially prolific. We're talking The Fog (1980s). Blood Beach. Megalodon. Piranha. I saw 'em all.

Though I prefer better-quality horror these days, I'll admit I still buy into the occasional bit of cheese and old skool. I plan to see Godzilla: King of the Monsters later this spring. Anybody who knows me knows I will always love Jessica Lange in the 80's King Kong. Without creature features, the spooky side of Hollywood would be a lot less fun.

Next time: More quake aftermath and the ghost ship hits the high seas.


	27. E4 Chapter 5 - Dark Waters

Jett wasn't joking about the harpoon.

When they set out that afternoon, the dark-haired young man steered the old outboard motorboat while Violet sat behind a harpoon gun mounted on the nose of the vessel. Cutting through the waves was not at all like she had imagined. It felt like riding a cool, humid motorcycle—one with a gun grip. The wind ripped through her hair, lashing it in her face like a whip. It was exhilarating. She decided she had to get Tate out on the waves. He would love it as much as she did, she was sure.

Jett slowed the boat when the lights from the beach house were pinpoints in the fog. Where they were at, the fog extended in all directions. The roll of the waves and the puttering motor were the only sounds for miles. Weak sunlight reflected on the mist and water in weird ways, throwing shadows and sparkles everywhere. It was dazzling and disorienting; a waking dream.

"Do you want to try?" Jett asked.

Violet glanced back and saw him gesturing to the idling motor in a welcoming way. She smiled and moved to join him. She cheated and just willed herself to the other side of the engine rather than rock the boat with an unnecessary physical display.

The move startled Jett. While he'd managed to consciously accept that the girl was dead, seeing such a blatant manifestation of the fact was still nerve-rattling, despite everything he had been through. "That's just creepy," he muttered to himself.

Any sympathy Violet might have felt for scaring him evaporated. "Says the guy who talks to dead mermaids." She put her hand on the boat's steering handle. "How do you work this thing?"

Jett stowed his surprise and looked at the motor. He would stew later over how she evaporated and reappeared next to him, but in the moment, he just rolled with it. She gave him little choice. "It's easy. If it's off, you pull this cord." He pointed out the starter pull. "But it's already on, so all you have to do is give it some gas and use the tiller to steer. That's the handle you're holding. It's just like a motorcycle: Rotate it back to speed up, forward to slow down. When you turn, push the tiller in the opposite direction from where you want to turn."

She did as instructed and they lurched ahead, veering sharply off to the right. "Whoa!" She eased up on the gas and soon they were going in a smooth circle.

"The boat can go two directions," Jett advised, trying unsuccessfully not to smile.

"I'm getting the hang of it," Violet said confidently. Still, she tugged the tiller the other direction and, after going in a half-circle, finally evened out so they were moving parallel to the shore.

"There you go," Jett encouraged.

"Hey, you're right," she smiled. "This is easy."

"Just watch out for the bigger waves," he advised as they were coming up on one. "You want to—"

She eased up on the throttle and WHAM! They hit the wave like a wall.

"Oof! Keep your speed up," Jett finished belatedly. "Don't slow down for big waves. You have to speed up or that happens."

He was soaked and a little winded by the rough ride. She threw him an apologetic look. "Sorry. I thought it was like a speed bump. It doesn't work like this in Grand Theft Auto."

"You play that?"

She laughed. "Yeah. Sometimes. Badly."

"I haven't seen that game in years," Jett marveled. "Do you have it at the beach house?"

She shook her head. "Nah. It's back home. You know, you—"

WHAM!

The boat was hit by something, but it wasn't a wave. Something huge and dark beneath them shot ahead of the small watercraft. Whatever it was, it was big and fast and circling back for another pass.

"Steer toward shore!" Jett hollered.

He didn't think. He just grabbed for the tiller. Violet, meanwhile, did as he had instructed. They both yanked on it, sending them in a full circle at top speed. The unsteady boat rocked violently.

"Let go of the motor and hold onto the boat!" Violet said. "Or shoot it with the harpoon!"

She had no fear for her own safety. She couldn't be thrown from the boat now that the thing couldn't surprise her. She wasn't so confident in Jett.

The young man didn't want to release control of the boat but he was smart enough to understand her logic. So, he grabbed the boat's side and scooted up close to the harpoon. Looking over to the right as they turned in toward shore, he could see the massive thing cutting through the water toward them. It was bigger than the boat.

"Shooting it would be a bad idea, I think," he said, sounding much calmer than he felt. "It'd only, uh, make it mad."

The aggressive creature was coming up fast. He secured his grip on the boat.

"Oh, shit!"

In the amount of time it took him to get the words out, the large thing cleared the remaining distance between them. It collided with the underside of the boat hard enough to lift it out of the water. The motor sputtered uselessly then choked out when it hit the water and went under. The creature surfaced and sank teeth the size of a man's hand into the prow. It was a huge bull shark, rotten and bloated, and very hungry. Fiberglass and wood splintered into the choppy waves as the undead creature thrashed.

"Swim for shore!" Violet hollered. "I'll distract it!"

Again, Jett had to check his instincts, reminding himself that the girl was dead and couldn't be harmed by the shark. It still felt wrong to abandon ship and leave her behind but he could have a moral crisis over it later, if he survived. He took a gulp of air and jumped into the frothing waves. The shark was so close, he was buffeted by the motion in the water.

He swam for shore, faster than he had ever moved in his life. He was certain the shark was right behind him but he didn't dare look back. He just kept paddling for the beach and praying with each kick that his foot wouldn't be bitten off. When he got to the shoreline he practically leaped out of the water. He didn't stop there: Adrenaline and a basic understanding of the undead propelled him well away from the waves. He had seen a living shark beach itself to get at an otter once. He wasn't taken his chances with a zombie one.

Once he was a safe distance away, he turned and looked for Violet. The fog obscured his view but he could see a shadowy form moving off-shore and could hear the sounds of his boat being bashed and torn to pieces.

"Daisy," he moaned, and he clamped his hands down over the top of his head as the full implication of the loss of the old boat hit him. "Shit! Shit-shit!"

The sounds of destruction slowed and tapered off. Jett continued to watch the hazy beach as his initial reaction burned off, leaving dejection in its wake.

"Hey. You okay?" Violet asked, suddenly right beside him.

He startled and staggered to the side, nearly losing his balance on the shifting sand. It was the last straw. "Fucking hell!" he swore angrily. "Could you not do that? Please? Christ!"

Violet was taken aback by his anger. "Sorry. I'll knock next time." When he didn't thaw, she added: "That was a joke."

He stared at her. "My boat just got eaten by a shark," he said tersely. " _I_ nearly got eaten by a shark! I don't see what there is to joke about! Jesus! I never should have let you talk me into going out there! I knew it was a bad idea!"

"If you knew it was a bad idea, then why did you say yes?" she fired back, unwilling to stand there and let him yell at her over something that wasn't her fault. If anything, it was the shark's fault.

"Because I like you!" Jett exploded.

There was an awkward silence that followed the bombshell confession. Embarrassment hit his anger like a bucket of cold water on a fire and suddenly he was angry with himself.

"I'm dead," she said carefully, trying to let him down easy.

"Forget I said anything," he said irritably, looking away down the beach.

"I didn't mean to—"

"I said forget it!" Jett fumed and turned to slog his way up the shore toward the damaged beach house he had claimed.

Violet watched him go. She wrapped her arms around her middle and let out a soft sigh. She felt rather villainous. She had almost gotten her new friend killed and she'd hurt him on the emotional spectrum as well. Destroyed his boat, too. All without even trying.

She rubbed her arms to chase away the goosebumps that popped up. Had the mansion infected her with its darkness? Was she as dangerous as any of the other denizens of Murder House now? The question echoed hollowly inside her with no answer.

…

Following the earthquake, the witches transported Constance to the hotel. Michael, Jeremiah, and Evangelina joined them. Most of the group gathered in the lobby sitting area while Misty Day sat with Constance in an upstairs room, while the woman slept. The hotel had sustained some damage to the façade and a few dishes in the kitchen broke when they hit the floor during the quake, but the structure was otherwise unscathed. It had seen worse in its time.

"Do you think we're ready?" Cordelia asked Fiona.

The blonde woman lit a cigarette and stuffed it into a filter stem. "Of course," she dismissed. "We can't afford to wait any longer. The next quake that hits could bring a tsunami. We need to be out of the valley when that happens."

"We don't have to fully retreat," Michael pointed out. "We could maintain this place and have a place in the Hills. We have enough people."

"We don't want to spread out too much," Desiree advised. "The Coven is strongest when we're together."

"And there's that church to think about," Parker interjected from the shadows of the bar. "What's it called? The New World Order?"

"New World United," Alec and Tisi corrected in unison. They were also seated at the bar. Meg was nearby, half-asleep in a chair close to the bar.

Fiona's nose crinkled with distaste. " _Those_ idiots."

"Some of their members have been seen at the market in the Hills," said Cordelia. "I think we should deal with that before we consider trying to make the settlement our base."

Michael sat back and folded his arms. He didn't like the idea of holing up in the bunker settlement. He enjoyed feeling like he had the whole of Los Angeles to run around in. He couldn't drive fast in the Hills. The place was overcrowding and dirty, except in the inner corridor where the rich people were. Which meant retreating even deeper into the earth. Jeremiah had taught him that mortals hid under the mountains during the end of times because they were afraid. Michael was anything but afraid.

He looked over at the ex-priest. The man was leaning against a pillar not far from the fire pit where most had gathered. He had that same blank expression he had worn since his resurrection. It made Michael uncomfortable to see him so emotionless, so he looked away. He didn't understand why Jeremiah was so different. When Michael had brought his fish back, he was the same fish…pretty much. He just breathed water, didn't need to eat, and hadn't died again despite being past the age when most fish died. Otherwise he still did everything a fish should.

People were obviously more complicated than fish. Michael was sure there was a way to fix Jeremiah, but he didn't know what to do. He didn't want to ask Misty Day because that would be admitting he messed things up. He wanted to try and fix things on his own before he did that.

"I'm staying here," he interjected. "Jeremiah and me, we're staying. We'll help you take the Hills but we're not moving there. We need to stay close to the mansion and there's no point in abandoning the hotel when we've got it so well put-together."

He noticed Dawn, the bald Chinese punk girl, nodding along with that last sentence and was pleased he wasn't the only one who saw the merit in maintaining the place.

"Fine," Fiona dismissed with a negligently flick of her wrist. "We'll scout it out this weekend and decide who we need to recruit and who needs to go."

Where Michael stayed didn't matter to her. The hotel didn't need a physical presence to protect it from the outside world, thanks to the coven's spells, and the young man could easily fend for himself. She could also find him whenever she wanted: He was a psychic beacon on the astral plane. Even if she was struck blind she would still know where he was. If he wanted to play fort at the hotel, she wouldn't stop him.

"What about Mother Constance?" he asked.

Fiona sucked on her black cigarette filter and arched a brow at him. "What about her?"

"What happens next?"

The witch tipped her head and exhaled smoke slowly, considering her words carefully. Michael had been acting erratically lately and she didn't want a scene. "Next comes a ritual. It's complicated. We'll need time to get set up in the Hills before it can be done."

Michael found the answer too vague to be satisfying. "What's going to happen to her?" he pressed.

The corner of Fiona's mouth curled in a sadistic little smile. "She's going to have a baby."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

American Horror Story, the show, has ranged all over the horror field, from fictional to real life. They've tapped contemporary and historical horror from all kinds of directions. However, due to the locations, the aquatic horror sub-genre hasn't really represented. Hopefully these past couple of chapters will help balance that out. Inspiration thanks to Jaws, Call of Cthulhu, the Meg/Megalodon, Piranha, and the Abyss.

Almost done with spring semester. Next week's finals so I may not have an update till later in the week. That's when you'll meet Tate's pet.


	28. E4 Chapter 6 - Pet Project

Rain pattered against the window, invisible in the dark of night. Thunder rumbled, vibrating the windowpane. Tate woke to the flash of white lightning behind the curtains. The strobe effect briefly lit up his room and he saw a figure standing near the foot of the bed for just an instant before the room went pitch black again.

"Pat?"

There was no response.

As his eyes adjusted, Tate could see there was no one there. He _knew_ what he saw, though. His immediate response was to blame one of the other ghosts in the house, but uncertainty trickled in, clouding his reasoning. Maybe he had dreamt the figure. Or else maybe it was a trick of the light and his imagination.

Annoyed with himself, Tate flopped back on the bed with an irritated sigh. Then he felt strong arms wrap around him from underneath, as though the mattress had come to life. He cried out in surprise and tried to struggle free from the iron grip.

He woke for real, thrashing in the tangled folds of Violet's quilt. He rolled out of bed with it where he tumbled out onto the rug. Rattled, he sat there for several dazed seconds before pain in his forehead alerted him that he'd bumped his head on the nightstand during his fall. He healed the slight damage and looked around.

There was no thunderstorm. The room was quiet; the house was dark but dead silent.

Though he was unnerved by the nightmare, he suddenly missed the storm. It had been ages since he had seen a proper rain. He wondered if it was raining where Violet was and missed her all over again. He picked himself up off the floor and distracted himself from missing her by trying to remember the dream. It was already mostly gone though. All he could recall was the storm and a general sense of foreboding.

He wasn't keen on going back to bed or sitting around in the dark for that matter. So, he decided to go on another excursion to search for a pet. Finding a suitable one had been a bigger challenge than the teen anticipated. Very little presented itself for his consideration and when he did find something, it usually wasn't anything he could bring home.

He tried the cemetery first that night. The graveyard was strange, all smothered in fog and overgrown. A distant memory stirred, and he recalled sneaking through the cemetery at night on a couple of occasions when he was still alive. Back then, the place was well-tended and managed to feel alive despite being a home for the dead. Then, cars zoomed by beyond the low walls. He could see street lights back then, and hear dogs barking.

Tate couldn't remember the last time he heard a dog bark. He missed animals. The scene at the zoo tried to surface from his memories and he stuffed it right back down again. He didn't want to think about that or the hundreds of abandoned pet stores out there.

He wandered further afield, not sure what he was looking for. He just knew didn't want another bird. He was still raw over the way the crows abandoned him.

And then he saw it.

It was so big and spiny-legged that he didn't even recognize what he was seeing when he came across it. It was the size of his hand and sitting out in the open, having recently taken down a young rat for a meal. It sat atop the dead rodent, waiting for its toxins to soften the meat enough to eat. It sensed him approaching and made itself known by lifting its thick front legs in a menacing manner and the thing hissed. The giant spider actually hissed.

Tate stopped where he was and tipped his head. He was used to critters sensing him. He suspected they could see some spectrum that humans couldn't. He wasn't used to ones outside the house being so aggressive. He knew the overgrown spider was just defending its food source, but he found the display amusing.

He decided he wanted it for his pet. However, he didn't have anything to put it in. While he could try to carry it home, that could get awkward since it already seemed ready to fight. So, Tate went to the caretaker's shed to find something to collect the arachnid in. He located an old coffee can and, once he dumped the rusty nails and screws out, it made a fine transport for the thing.

Only when he got back to the spot where the spider had been, it was gone. The thing it had been eating was gone too. Either it had scuttled off with its dinner or it and the dead rat had been eaten by something even bigger. It was a disappointment, no matter the cause.

Still, Tate was not deterred. He left the cemetery, taking the old coffee can with him just in case he found something else that would fit in it. On reflection, though, he decided it was just as well that he hadn't caught the spider. It was a living thing and living things never fared well in the Montgomery Mansion. He really needed to find something that was already dead.

The only problem was that the blood crows had taken out almost everything undead. Human and animal zombies were largely a thing of the past. He got to eyeballing the houses as he headed back in the general direction of the mansion. If there were any undead things left in Los Angeles, they were most likely to be found in the thousands of houses scattered through the foggy zone.

Tate decided to expand his new hobby of pet-hunting.

—

Searching the abandon homes turned out to be great fun. Tate had unrestricted access to other people's things and no one to tell him to keep his hands to himself. After the third house, he wondered why he hadn't thought to go scavenging sooner. He found troves of secrets and treasures in the belongings of the dead and missing. Photos and weird clothing, expensive wares, and all kinds of amazing things to bring home to add to his collection.

By the fifth house, he had too much to carry. Rather than head home, he nabbed a shopping cart and pushed that door to door in the nicer section of the neighborhood. Decked out in trinkets, jewelry, neckties and several hats, he took his loot back home.

It felt great to move all of the stuff into the shadows of the foyer. It got him thinking about all the treasure he could find in the rich area of the valley. He didn't want to have to walk it all back from there though so his thoughts turned to those he knew that could drive. As he arranged his new acquisitions, he considered who would be best for the task.

Ordinarily, he would ask Dr. Harmon. But he was still gone with Violet. Tate had to remind himself again that they were gone to protect them from Michael, but the reasoning made less sense to him as time passed. They couldn't just stay away. Not forever. They had already been gone longer than he liked.

Without Ben to ask, Tate went down the line to Patrick, then Chad. Neither was someone he felt comfortable with involving in his raids. He wanted to look for a pet and he had a feeling they would object to that, and to his collecting. Mrs. Nora didn't drive. Charles might but fat chance getting him out of the basement. The guy never left the house. Ever.

Sam and Nikki could both drive and likely wouldn't have a problem with his missions, but he didn't like the idea of asking them for help. Mostly it was Max he had an objection to. But there weren't many people after them. Travis could technically drive but he rode a motorcycle and even if Tate was comfortable sitting that close to the guy, which he wasn't, they needed something he could haul stuff in.

He thought about trying to drive himself. He had never had an interest in the activity and wasn't keen on it even now. Cars were unnecessarily complicated and needed gas and attention to not run into things. He preferred to leave the mystery of the machines to people who understood how to use them. He liked to ride and not think about how he was moving. He could manage in video games but after all these years, still crashed all the time.

Michael drove. He did it without crashing, too, although he always parked badly and when he took off, the tires made squealing noises outside. Like he wanted the whole world to know when he was leaving.

The more Tate thought about it, the more it bothered him.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting behind the wheel of the car that the last owner of the Montgomery Mansion had left behind. It was a fancy old Jaguar that Pat used to get a kick out of driving down to the club back when it was still in operation. It had sat idle for a while, but it started right up when he turned the key in the ignition.

Working on theory and past memory of watching others do it, Tate tried to put the car in reverse, but the handle wouldn't shift. He finally figured out that he had to have his foot on the brake and got the thing in gear. Then, very slowly, he let his foot up off the brake. He crept slowly down the long driveway, braking often and hard. When he finally rolled out onto the street, he let the car glide to a complete stop before putting the brake on and shifting into the Drive gear. After a few jerky false starts, he was off.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I am done with finals for the Spring semester at school. Wheeeew. Unfortunately, during my moment of distraction, Tate decided he could drive.

I'll get this fic back on course next chapter. I hope.


	29. E4 Chapter 7 - Home Again Home Again

"What do you mean?" Violet asked, stalling for time to think of what she was going to say.

"Just what I said, Vi," said Ben. "We're going home. Joshua's been inconsolable since the earthquake, and your mother and I both think he'd be happier at home."

Indeed, the notoriously fussy infant had refused to stop crying for more than an hour at a stretch, and that was only after he had cried himself into exhaustion. He was fussing at that moment, in fact. Vivien paced in the kitchen with him while Violet and Ben discussed plans.

"We can't go back yet," insisted Violet, but she didn't have a good cover story for why.

Her dad looked at her like she was crazy. "Why not?"

She pressed her lips together, dimpling her cheek. She knew she had to tell him. "Tate said… he said Michael wants to hurt mom."

Vivien stopped pacing and came closer to them in order to hear better. She switched to gently bouncing the baby. The change had no impact on his mewling.

"Why? Why would he want to do that?" Ben wanted to know.

Violet hunched her shoulders in a shrug. "I'm not sure. Tate said Michael told him…" She glanced at her mother, then soldiered on. "That he wanted to get mom pregnant."

Her parents exchanged a look then they both looked at Violet, who folded her arms with the sudden desire to hide in her loose gray cardigan.

"You knew this, and you didn't tell us?" Ben boggled.

"I just did!" Violet objected.

"Because you had no other choice," her father fired back.

Joshua fussed louder and Vivien began to pace with him again. "Violet, honey," she interrupted. "We're ghosts. He can't get me pregnant." She made a strange face, not liking those words on her tongue. She felt tainted. "Even if it was possible, which I doubt, he can't get near me if he can't see me."

Ben was still irked at what he felt was a basic betrayal of his trust in his daughter but, for the baby's sake, he wadded the irritation up and stuffed it down as far as he could. "We're going home. Now." He gave Violet a stern look then he vanished.

"Let's go," Vivien said, a little more gently. Then she, too, vanished. Joshua's cry tapered off and was gone.

Violet sighed again. She wanted to go look for Jett. She hadn't seen him since he'd left her on the beach. His stuff was gone from the ruined beach house when she checked there last. He hadn't left notice of where he was going yet she still felt the urge to tell him that she was leaving. It was a strange way to feel. He didn't care enough about her feelings to tell her he was going, so why did she care if he knew where she was?

She hugged herself and then she willed herself back home.

—

Coming home presented an unexpected source of relief and comfort for Violet. When she had been forced to return, back before the fog spread everywhere, it was a dreary thing to have to go back to the mansion. Sometimes it was downright depressing. This time, it felt different. The familiar dusty old scent smelled like home after spending the last few days on the beach. The dark, enclosed space of the downstairs foyer hugged her in ways the open, airy beach house hadn't. While pretty, the seaside house was about as personable as a tent to her.

"Violet," her father said from the doorway of his office down the hall. "Let's talk."

She felt her stomach sink to her feet. It had been a long time since her dad had taken that tone with her: The dad tone. She was technically into her adult years but when he looked at her like that, she felt sixteen all over again. No. Twelve.

She trudged over to him, still hugging herself and not wanting to make eye contact. He let her enter the room before following her, tugging the door shut behind himself. She went over to the leather sofa and let herself drop into it, taking the seat Tate usually sat in when he was in session.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you guys," she said sincerely. "I didn't want to upset you."

Ben took a seat in the chair adjacent to the couch and propped his elbows on his knees. "I understand you felt like you were protecting us," he said, brows arching. "But that's not the way to do it."

She nodded miserably and wished she could fast forward through to a couple of hours from now. "I didn't know what else to do. I just wanted to keep mom safe."

"We all do," Ben assured. "But we can't do that as a family if two-thirds of us don't even know what's going on. Do you see?"

Violet's lips pursed and she nodded again. "Yeah. Sorry. I guess I just kind of freaked out."

He smiled and reached over to tuck her hair behind her ear. She withdrew slightly, which pricked his heart, but he couldn't blame her. Not after everything they had been through over the years. He pretended not to notice and settled back in his chair.

"No more secrets?"

She faked a little smile for him that he seemed to buy. "No more secrets."

—

Violet went searching for Tate as soon as she could escape her dad. To her disappointment, she couldn't find him. She couldn't sense him anywhere in the house, either. That was unusual.

Orienting instead on Chad, she found the dark-haired man in the downstairs bathroom, scrubbing viciously at the dusty crud lining the baseboard. He didn't look up when she came in but he did acknowledge her.

"I just don't understand how things like this get so _dirty_!" he told her emphatically. "It's not like anyone living is even using this area so how the hell does all this hair and crap get here?"

He threw the down the toothbrush he was using in defiance of the stubborn mess. Then he sat back on the heels of his leather loafers and sent Violet a look that demanded sympathy for his plight.

Though his irritation was genuine, the teen found it hard to keep her face straight. "I'm sure it's just because it's old. Dust settles."

"I clean it every week!"

Violet pulled a sympathetic face then. "Maybe it's the house messing with you. If you ignore it, maybe it'll stop."

"Tell me how to ignore _this_!" Chad indignantly held up a dustpan spotted with dark hairballs and papery chunks of old dust.

"Tell it to 'go away'?"

Chad gave her a cold look. "Funny."

She favored him a dry smile, then changed the subject to what she had come for. "Do you know where Tate went?"

Chad's expression cleared into mild confusion. "He's not here?" He froze for a moment while he extended himself through the frame of the house. "Huh."

Violet thought. "Maybe he's at his mother's."

Chad shrugged. "Possibly. Or off with Patrick. He and the car are gone. They're probably in town."

"Why would they take the car just to go there?"

Chad shrugged again and picked up the toothbrush. "Patrick likes to pretend he's _alive_." He widened his eyes and looked heavenward, to show what he thought of the affectation. "Living people don't teleport. They drive."

Violet considered going looking for them but that seemed like a lot of effort that might not pan out. Better just to wait. They would come back eventually.

"Need help?" she offered after a moment. It would give her something to do while she was waiting and would help her keep her mind off of Michael and whatever he might be doing.

Chad eyed her, suspecting a prank, but she was serious. After some scrutiny, he relented. "If you really want to help, the window has come off its track and won't stay open. It's a two-person job to fix it because it keeps falling down."

"We never open that window," she pointed out.

"So?" Chad demanded, offended. "It still needs to work right. Do you want to help or not?"

"Yeah," she smiled, amused by his mood. "Sorry. I just never even think about that window."

"That's because you're not a homeowner."

She rolled her eyes. That was the most ridiculous thing she'd heard in a while. It was always pretty funny. "So, what do we have to do?"

"First, we need the toolbox."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

When I write this stuff, I have a very loose outline I follow that I scripted months and months ago. It's not much more than a list of chapters and, beneath each chapter title, a bullet-point list of single-sentence plot developments. As such, a lot of the story comes out as a surprise even to me. At this point in the story I have no idea where Patrick is. Last I checked, he wasn't with Tate or the car. But then, I also have no idea where Tate went. His running off with the car was not in any of my bulleted lists.

It might be the last time anyone sees that car...

Thanks for the feedback and messages! You guys keep me inspired.

Next time: Michael makes the Seven Deadlies proclamation. What the heck's that? You'll have to come back and see later.


	30. E4 Chapter 8 - Obtenebratus

The small room was dark, the sunlight from the lone window blocked by two layers of blankets pinned up over it. A small transistor radio on the floor piped out "In a Gadda Davita" by Iron Butterfly. The song was tinny and distorted with static from the weak, homespun signal. The faint music filled the sudden silence that followed a loud bout of rough sex. Pat rolled away from his partner, amazed again that he could actually have sex outside the confines of the mansion. Before the fog freed him from the domestic prison, he couldn't get it up outside of the house. He had consoled himself giving blowjobs during his Halloween reprieve, which he did enjoy, but actual penetration with someone he hadn't been trapped with for decades was sinfully decadent.

After a few seconds to catch his breath, the other guy rolled over to press against Patrick's side. Joey was his name. He was a 20-something, with a well-toned body and sandy brown hair that just reached his shoulders. They had met down in the town square and hit it off instantly. An hour later, they were up in Joey's apartment, fooling around. Pat had intended to suck the younger guy off, but Joey was a greedy lover and wanted more. Much to the jock's surprise, when the younger man grabbed his crotch, Patrick's cock responded. For the first time since he died, his dick got hard without needing to be at the mansion.

All bets were off after that. After years of restraint, Pat indulged his libido to the fullest. The sex was beyond amazing. It left Pat with a solid sense of satisfaction, like a deep tissue massage for an embedded knot. A persistent, maddening itch scratched.

"So," Joey murmured. He used his finger to trace a lazy loop around his lover's nearest nipple. "Your place next time?"

It was a question intended to feel out whether this was an isolated event or something with potential but, for Patrick, the question burst his warm bubble. He laced his fingers behind his head and tried to form a diplomatic answer to that unintentionally difficult question.

"I have roommates."

Joey's brows arched. "They don't know you're gay?"

Pat wasn't liking the direction the conversation was going but it was too late to stop it now. "No. They know. It's just…complicated."

"How so?" Joey stopped petting and pushed himself up on an elbow, to better see the other guy's face.

"One is…He's my ex." Pat cringed internally, feeling unfaithful calling Chad his ex. Then he was instantly mad at himself for feeling guilty. "I also have a—" He hesitated, not sure how to describe his relationship with the other biggest potential problem. "Tate."

"You have...a Tate?"

Pat huffed an irritated sigh. "He's sort of like a ward."

Joey's brows went higher and he smiled. "A ward. What, are you Batman?"

Patrick didn't smile back. "He's like a cross between a stepson, a kid brother, and a royal pain in the ass. He wouldn't like you and I don't want him to hurt you." That was as much of the truth as Pat wanted to give him.

The sandy-haired younger man made a funny face as he digested that. "You think he would try to hurt me?"

Pat had hoped the conversation would end with his last statement. "I know he would. He's an unstable brat who gets off on messing with people. Like I said: It's complicated."

"I guess so," Joey agreed, taken aback. "But if these two are so, um... Er. Why...do you live with them? Seems pretty crazy to me."

Pat looked at his new lover, studying his face. "Maybe I'm crazy, too."

Joey laughed but there was a nervous edge to the sound. It would have made him feel better if the muscular man had smiled when he said he was crazy, to make it feel more like a joke. "I think maybe we're all a little crazy, these days."

"Maybe," Patrick agreed.

Before the other guy could say anything more, Pat rolled on top of him and delivered a dominating kiss. Soon they were fucking again. It didn't feel the same, though. The magic was gone for Patrick and he wasn't sure why. When they they said goodbye that night, he knew he wouldn't be returning to the apartment.

...

Because Tate drove at a fraction of the posted speed limit, it took him nearly half an hour to get to the zoo in spite of the fact that he was the only driver on the road. He decided to go to the city zoo because he reckoned some of the animals that he and Violet had liberated might have returned, looking for food or shelter. Or maybe some new wildlife moved in. When he got there, he parked the car badly, but he forgave himself since it was the first time that he tried to park a car.

Once he'd pocketed the keys, he went to the zoo entrance. He passed right through the rusted bars of the towering gate and looked around at the decayed interior of the park. The years had been both cruel and kind to the place: The fog hid the majority of it from immediate view, but what Tate could see had been exposed to many months of cold, heat, rain, and dust. The flora in the planters had died off only to be replaced by heartier weeds and grass, several generations of which had also died in the beds. The pavement was caked in settled dirt and dead leaves. It looked like the ruins of an ancient temple.

Tate paused to listen. It was late afternoon and he could hear a few brave crickets calling for the wan sun to set. Every once in a while, he heard a lonely bird. Other than that and the sound of wind, the zoo was silent. The teen struck out in the direction he remembered the big apes to be. A pet gorilla could be interesting. When he got to the mock rain forest, though, the trees were mostly dead. Without living people to water them, they had perished in LA's comparatively arid climate. There was no recent sign of the large mammals anywhere. The absence of any bones gave Tate hope that the apes were rampaging downtown somewhere.

He spent a couple of hours wandering the fog-choked park without finding anything pet-worthy. He saw a peacock at one point, but the thing wasn't at all friendly toward him. It looked diseased, too, and that was when he began to rethink his idea to have something undead as a pet. If it was too far gone or nasty, he wouldn't want to interact with it.

Disappointed and dejected, he wandered back toward the entrance of the zoo. He didn't want to go home yet. He didn't want to admit defeat, but he wasn't sure he wanted a pet anymore. Even if he picked something that wouldn't get killed and wasn't too gross, it would probably never like him.

Coming around one of the dead but overgrown planters, Tate stopped short when he saw the shadowy figure of a person ahead in the fog. It was the same figure he had seen that morning when he woke up. He knew it was because they had the same wide-brimmed hat on. It hadn't been his imagination. Suddenly irritated, he took a step forward and willed himself over to where the individual was.

Except that the person wasn't there when he got there.

Tate knew then for sure that he was dealing with wasn't a natural living thing. A witch, possibly, but he didn't think it was them. They had snobbier things to do than trying to spook a ghost. He doubted it was his mother either. He suffered a pang of guilt thinking about her. He didn't know what had happened to her after the coven took her body but stalking him wasn't her modus operandi. If she was mad at him, she would let him know directly. Her temper wouldn't allow her to waste time shadowing him all over town. No, he didn't think it was her. It had to be someone though, or something.

Rubber Man?

The thought sent an icy jolt through him and he decided it was time to leave the zoo, the fast way. He willed himself to the car and slapped the button to lock the doors, which he knew was silly but made him feel a little better. Rubber Man didn't wear a hat to his knowledge, but Michael had been messing with it. Maybe that changed things?

It could even be Michael, he reasoned. After that incident in the attic, the possibility wasn't out of the question. Irritation flooded in and he started the car. The engine roared to life and the car lurched forward roughly. He hit the brakes so the car wouldn't go sailing off into the nearby drainage ditch. A few more forward lurches and he found his pacing. He pulled out onto the broad, empty street, stewing. He wanted to get Michael back for the stupid pranks, but he wasn't sure how to do that. As he mulled over idea after juvenile idea, he began to get the sense that he wasn't alone. A sinister feeling presence registered behind him and he had the wild impression that if he looked in the rear view mirror, a demon would be sitting in the back seat.

Unafraid, he boldly looked in the mirror. There was indeed a figure right behind him. It was like living shadow, the outline of a person without any distinguishing features except the shadowy hat atop its slammed on the brakes and the car came to a very sudden stop. He expected to see the person go sailing through the windshield, but nothing happened. He looked back over his shoulder to get a clear look at the person.

There was no one there.

The teen looked in the rearview mirror again, but it said what his eyes did: There was nobody in the car. He frowned, confused, then he got mad.

"Stop fucking with me!" he shouted, punching the roof of the car to accent each word.

He sat there for several seconds, feeling the abrupt bout of rage dwindle back down to confusion. He didn't understand what was happening, but he knew he didn't like it. So, he did what he always did when the world turned hostile: He went home.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The title of this chapter is Latin. It means darkness, but specifically in reference to a person. One who is darkened or obscured.

The first part of this chapter came from me wondering where Pat was, because I knew he wasn't with Tate and the car. One mystery solved. I thought maybe Pat was going to have himself another on-the-side boyfriend, but apparently he can't handle it when someone asks him personal questions. He can be such an ass sometimes.

So I know I promised a spot from Michael but Pat stole his moment. We'll be getting there next time, I promise.


	31. E4 Chapter 9 - Seven Deadlies

It was nearly sunset when Tate finally pulled the car up outside the Montgomery Mansion. He had avoided looking in the mirror the rest of the way back and he quickly abandoned the vehicle in the driveway, nearly forgetting the keys in his haste. Once they were in his hand, he shifted himself inside the house. When the walls were securely around him, he put the keys back on the hook near the back door. Then he shot a paranoid glance around, half-expecting to see the Hat Person there.

His senses weren't entirely wrong: There was someone in the doorway to the dining room, but it wasn't a hat-wearing anonymous shadow.

"Violet!"

Surprise and joy erased everything else for Tate when he saw her. She smiled and then had to steady herself as he galloped the short distance to seize her in a great big bearhug.

"Hi," she laughed.

"Oh, God, Violet! I've missed you sooo much!"

He wanted to tell her more, but he needed to kiss her, so he did. She put her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss and the whole world felt right again. They kissed for a long time before Tate reluctantly broke away, and only because she initiated it.

"I missed you, too," she said then. She ran her fingers through his uncombed curls and smiled up at him affectionately. She hadn't realized just how much she'd missed him until they were reunited. "Mom and dad found out about what Michael said and made us come home."

Tate made a face. "Doesn't make sense to me but…I guess your dad knows what he's doing."

Violet snorted a laugh. "As if."

He squeezed her narrow waist, loving the way she felt in his arms. "What was the beach like?"

She squeezed back and stole a quick, light kiss. "Let's go sit down and I'll tell you all about it. I want a cigarette."

The dishes in the cupboards started to rattle all at once, chittering softly at first but quickly rising to a clamor as the whole room began to shake.

"Shit!" said Tate, instinctively holding his girlfriend tighter. "It's another goddamned earthquake!"

The tremor reached its crescendo where it sustained noticeable swaying and trembling for several seconds before tapering off again.

After several seconds without a follow-up, Tate said, "Guess it was just a baby quake. Quakelet."

"Let's hope that's the last one," Violet muttered as they separated to head for the great room. "There was a bad one while we were at the beach."

"You felt it too?" Tate marveled. "Wow. It must've been real big then."

"It fucked shit up all down the beach," she confirmed. She flopped down on the white sofa, regretting the move when the hard cushions resisted her. It was like sitting on cloth-wrapped concrete. With effort, she pushed back Chad's influence on the room and forced it into the 60's, when the room had much more comfortable furnishings.

"What was it like there before then?" he asked as he settled next to her on the couch, which had changed to an olive green with squishy cushions.

Tate gathered her nearest hand for holding and chewed a hangnail on his other hand while he listened to her describe her weird trip to the ocean. She didn't leave anything out, not even the part where Jett said he liked her. Tate found the crush amusing, which was better than him getting jealous in Violet's opinion, even if it made her feel even sorrier for the living boy.

"So, did anything happen here besides the quake?" she prompted, to stop Tate hacking on the guy more.

Tate thought and shook his head. "Nah. Nothing you'd care about."

He didn't want to tell her about the coven taking Constance's body. He had a feeling that might spoil Violet's good mood somehow. She could be funny about things like that.

…

Across town, the Hollywood Hills was in a state of disaster. The tremor had originated there, when Michael cracked open the vault that hid the privileged, wealthy survivors and separated them from the struggling common people. Together with the majority of New Jerusalem's coven and a substantial amount of supernatural fire, he scoured the elite from out of the bowels of the earth. They left only the youngest children alive at Michael's behest.

"I don't see why we should keep them," Fiona objected when they were discussing the toddlers and infants in the aftermath of the cleansing. "They're only screaming mouths to feed. Someone will have to look after them, too, and it's not going to be me!"

"I want them for my flock," Michael insisted. "Parker can take care of them. Him and, uh…" He quickly sifted through his options. "Misty Day. They can handle nine babies."

Fiona gave a short laugh. "Neither of them is a parent. They wouldn't know the first thing about taking care of babies."

"Then scramble their brains with your magic, Auntie!" the young man snapped. "Make it so they're vegetables, for all I care! I just want their blood. Alive."

Fiona's jaw set and her dark eyes flashed. She didn't take well to any male ordering her around. She checked the impulse to slap him, though. "If you want them 'scrambled'," she said, keeping a tight restraint on her voice. " _You_ do it."

She was pretty scary when she was like that and, for all his newfound power, Michael was relieved when she stalked away. He briefly considered setting her on fire like he had the people in the bunker, but he knew she was still far more useful to him alive. He felt the need to reassert himself once she left, though, so he looked to the other coven members who had convened within the blood-splattered common area.

"This place needs to be cleaned up if you're going to make it a base of operations," he told them authoritatively. "See that it's done."

Then he left the bunker as well, head held high in spite of his jangled feelings.

—

Late that same night, Michael made a speech outside the entrance of the bunker. It was an impromptu public address, so they lit it with barrels of fire and guttering emergency candles lined up in a row above the warped doors. He stood, bathed in the flickering glow from hundreds of flames, dark eyes dancing with golden light. Nearby, the high ranking members of the coven stood by, both to hear and to monitor the crowd that had assembled on the side of the hill to hear their Messiah speak.

"The old ways are done," he announced, his voice projected through an old microphone and amp. There was feedback but he could be heard by all. "Those who try to cling to those ways, those who try to force those ways on us, will meet with the same end as these. These people who, in the times before the fog, ruined everything!"

A ragtag cheer began but Michael spoke louder. "It's a new world, now. The presidents and kings and emperors had their time and they ruined this world. It's my turn now."

A huge cheer went up but was quickly overwhelmed by the roar that went up from every source of fire near Michael, as the flames suddenly shot several feet in the air. The flames from the emergency candles was so intense, the wax melted and wept in fat gleaming drops behind him like rain. Black smoke from the flames coalesced into the distinct form of a dragon that hung in the air above him for several seconds before suddenly dispersing in a clap of thunder that shook the ground and left many partially deaf for hours later.

—

The next day, a proclamation was hung on every public bulletin and passed out by town newsies. It was entitled "The Seven Deadlies" and it described the seven basic laws of New Jerusalem. In essence, they were:

Above everything, all must recognize and defer to the authority of Michael Langdon.

All must recognize and defer to the authority of the Coven.

Any who would plot against either of the above must be brought to justice or, failing that, killed.

All citizens must belong to the One Church, Michael's order, led by Misty Day.

Citizens must treat one another civilly, in accordance with the community laws set down.

Any person may not do anything that would jeopardize Michael, the Coven, New Jerusalem, the Hills, or its inhabitants.

Everything and everyone in New Jerusalem and the Hills belong to Michael Langdon and the Coven.

There may have been some in town who objected to the litany, but no one was brave enough to contest it. By then, every living being in the area had witnessed the power of the witches and the Antichrist first-hand. The world beyond the fog was unstable and showing no signs of regulating. It was safer for most just to go along with the new regime, at least for the time being.

Things were just beginning to normalize when Pietre got news that one of the Daggers of Armageddon had been located.

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

End episode. The song for the credits this time is Iron Maiden's "Can I Play with Madness".

Next chapter starts the next episode, called "The Wild Hunt". If you want a teaser for what the episode's about, check Wikipedia for that phrase.

Really big things are ahead so hold onto your seat. Shit's about to get scary.


	32. E5 Chapter 1 - The Wild Hunt

"Wake her up," Pietre said, with a sharp motion of his hand toward the triplets.

Alec stepped up, ghostlike in the dark room. At the center of the otherwise empty studio was a woman. She looked quite helpless, bound to a chair beneath the harsh glow of a lone trouble light hooked to the ceiling. Alec tugged the black hood off of the captive's head and her short blonde hair lifted briefly with the static electricity it produced.

Confused and bordering on outrage, she immediately looked around. Orienting on Pietre, her eyes flared wide and she tried to speak the words of a cantrip that would send a psychic blast his way strong enough to stop the heart of another witch, but nothing happened.

He laughed and closed the distance between them, bare feet silent on the concrete floor. "Don't be foolish," he chided, as though speaking to a child. "Do you really think I wouldn't be thorough in binding you? I _taught_ you."

That last sentence registered vicious and the triplets withdrew into the shadows of the room, wary of what that tone meant. The woman tied to the chair could sense it too, but she didn't let her fear show.

"You didn't teach me," she scoffed. "You tried to seduce me."

"That's what the Dark Arts are, my dear," he said, back to his silky purr again. "A seduction."

He reached out and played with her hair. She tried to duck but he caught her chin with his other hand, forcing the touch on her. She glowered up at him.

"I don't like this look on you," he opined. "You're a pretty girl. You used to care about such things."

"Fuck you," she snapped, offended.

He chuckled then sobered. "Tell me, my dear. Where are the others?"

"I'm not your dear," she volleyed.

He tipped his head slightly. "If you don't tell me, you do know I will take the information from you. If I have to do that…" He got right up in her face then, close enough that she could smell the cognac on his lips. "I will make sure it hurts you as much as possible."

Her dark eyes were resolute, but he saw her lower lip tremble slightly. He stroked her cheek gently then cupped her jaw in his palm. It was a lover's caress.

"Tell me where they are, Madison. Tell me where Zoe and Kyle took the other Daggers."

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

The veil of unconsciousness slipped away, trading blackness for dim blue light cast by a lamp over in the corner. Constance tried to sit up but found herself bound to the bed she was in, her wrists and ankles secured with quality black leather restraints. Seeing them summoned unsettling thoughts of Rubber Man so she quickly put her attention to what was around her.

Seated in an armchair under the lamp, Billie Dean sat doing a puzzle in a tattered old book of crosswords. She was overdressed for the role of sit-in nursemaid in her taupe-and-mint pantsuit. The room appeared to be hotel room, though it lacked the super-clean scent of bleach most hotels used to carry. The room smelled of its age.

"How dare you!" Constance accused, her strength rallying quickly. "You have no right to hold me hostage!"

Billie Dean put her pencil in the book to mark her place and set it aside on the nearby end table. She lit a cigarette. "You're not being held hostage. You were brought back to life and tried to kill yourself. The restraints are there for your own protection."

The bound woman fell silent as she struggled to recall the events of the last few hours. She could only find general impressions of fear and strife, which scared her even more than the restraints did. The last solid memory she had was of talking with Michael in the kitchen back home. Something about the bunker up in the Hollywood Hills.

"Michael… he brought me back to life?" Constance looked and saw her hand then and moaned miserably. "Oh, sweet Jesus! What has he done to me?"

Billie Dean was unimpressed. "He overturned your death sentence."

"He made me old!"

"Nature made you old," the medium refuted. "Made us both old." She sucked on her cigarette.

Constance tried to tug free of her bonds, but the restraints held firm. "Let me go!"

"I don't think that would be a good idea right now," Billie Dean said.

She threw a desperate, if irritated, look at her former friend. "At least bring me a Goddamned cigarette then!"

Billie Dean wavered then caved. She got up carried the cigarette she was smoking over to the bed. She hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the mattress and held the butt close to Constance's lips.

"Small mercies," the woman muttered and sucked on the filter.

Her lips brushed Billie Dean's fingers and the psychic stiffened as a vision hit her, sudden and unbidden. In an instant she knew Michael's plan and what would happen to Constance if the ritual went through as planned. Horrified, her hand started to shake. She dropped the cigarette and the ember burned right through the thin nightgown Constance was wearing. The woman yelped in pain and Billie Dean hastily scooped the cigarette off of her.

"I'm so sorry!" she said, voice trembling with emotion. It wasn't just the cigarette she was apologizing for.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Constance swore.

She would have added more except that Billie Dean crushed the cigarette unceremoniously on the bedside table and started working on unbuckling the nearest wrist cuff that held Constance to the bed.

"You're going to let me go?" the bound woman asked, finding it hard to believe.

"I'm so, so sorry," Billie Dean blathered as she fumbled with the restraint. "I didn't know. I didn't know what he was going to do."

She wasn't making sense. Constance had a feeling whatever upset her was important to know. "What? What is who going to do?"

The cuff came off and Billie Dean moved immediately to the first ankle cuff she could reach. "Michael. He wants to use you in some depraved ritual…" She shook her head, not wanting to describe what she saw in that psychic blast. "We have to get you out of here."

Constance blinked back tears. She was in a waking nightmare. She wanted to go home, where everything made sense. She lay there while Billie Dean hurriedly took off the other cuffs. When she was free, she sat up. She felt weak and heavy and didn't know if it was because of whatever Michael did to bring her back or simply because she was flesh. Considering the state Jeremiah had returned in, she wouldn't be surprised if her body wasn't working like it should.

"I don't think I can walk. Not far, anyway."

Billie Dean looked around frantically, like the room itself would offer a solution. It held nothing of help. "I'll help you. We just need to get you down to the service entrance of the kitchen. I have a car parked out back."

Constance got to her feet with a soft groan of effort. Her bones ached. Her tendons ached. Everything ached. She took a few steps then had to lean on Billie Dean the rest of the way to the elevator. She propped herself on the wall for the ride. When the elevator reached the ground floor, Billie Dean peeked out. The way was clear so she helped Constance down the hall as quickly as she could go.

It wasn't a difficult escape, but it was a hasty one. They didn't take anything, not even shoes for Constance. Billie Dean just loaded her into the passenger's side of the sedan then scrambled into the driver's seat. She threw Constance a trembling smile as she started the car.

"Was it Thelma or Louise who did the driving?" Billie Dean quipped as she threw it into reverse.

"Hell if I know," grumped Constance, staring out the window as they drove away from the hotel. "I don't watch those lesbian films."

…

* * *

Author's Note:

Thanks for reading my stuff. I really appreciate the comments I get. I also appreciate you lurkers who are following this story.

So. I wasn't expecting Billie Dean to free Constance. This will be an interesting wrinkle to iron out. At least Pietre's doing his job.

Speaking of, Madison in this story is the same as the one in my Teenage Frankenstein fic. If you haven't seen it, it's a relatively short read. It was written in tandem with the show as it aired, so it will probably read better if you follow along with the show for the first 5 episodes. After that it kind of wanders its own way. Events in that fic tie into this one and have since the beginning of Armageddon.

Next time we'll see Michael handles this sudden change of plans.


	33. E5 Chapter 2 - Girls and Boys

((Search 'Requiem for a Dream music box' for an awesome song to listen to while reading this chapter.))

* * *

"I didn't know you played," Tate remarked from the chaise lounge.

Violet plinked out the notes of O Fortuna on the baby grand piano in a slow, almost staccato manner. The sound echoed gloomily in the music room.

"My parents made me take lessons," she said with a slight smile. "They thought it would help me with math or something."

"Did it?"

"Maybe? I don't know. I haven't done math in so long…" She shook her head, making her straight brown hair shimmy down her back in the dim light coming through the dusty windowpanes. "I knew I wouldn't need algebra."

Downstairs, the front door swung open though no hand touched it. Michael's presence and desire were all that it needed. He stepped into the shadowy entryway and the door swung shut behind him. He paid it no mind. He could sense Constance wasn't in the house but that wasn't why he was there. Orienting on the familiar source of erratic energy on the third floor, he headed up the boxy flight of stairs.

On the second floor landing he encountered Moyra. He recognized her energy signature but not her physical form: In the past, she had always appeared to be an old woman. Now she looked close to his age, pretty and fiery-haired. Her clothes fit more snugly and covered less. She practically dripped sex.

"Looking for someone?" she purred, blocking his way up.

Michael assessed her from the toes on up. Sex with her would be interesting. He wasn't sure how corporeal she was, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be an issue. "I might be."

The maid could tell he what he was thinking, and she came down to his step to sidle up close to him. "You've found someone."

The maid's supernatural sex appeal played with his senses, distracting him from his intentions. He knew that any delay would mean more time Constance had to disappear, but the carnal urge was a heady temptation. Michael knew he could resist if he wanted but he didn't particularly want to. His cock was hard and when she pressed up close to him and squeezed his ass, he decided it was worth it.

He grabbed her shoulders and pressed a hungry kiss to her lips. She tasted like autumn spices and coffee. Delicious.

They kissed for several long seconds there on the stairs, pawing and groping, before she tugged him up to the landing and toward the nearest bedroom. The master bedroom. It looked the way it did when the Harmons lived there and they fell into the broad bed, feverishly tugging at each other's clothes.

The sex was rough and loud. He took her from behind then she rode him cowboy style. When he came, he came deep inside her and kept her pinned beneath him until his heart had settled back into a normal rhythm. The bliss he felt was amazing; better than anything he'd felt with a living girl. He decided he would definitely try it again, when he wasn't busy searching for his runaway relatives.

Eventually he pulled out and rolled away from her after nuzzling her with a couple of light kisses. As he sat on the edge of the bed searching his coat pockets for his cigarettes, the bare redhead crawled up behind him and started smoothing his hair. He had lost his hair ribbon somewhere in the tussle.

"Was Mother Constance here today?" he asked. He found his cigarette case and plucked one of the black-papered things out.

"What?" Moyra blinked. "No."

"Shit," Michael swore. He exhaled smoke and promptly hit the cigarette again. "You're sure?"

"Yes," the maid replied, withdrawing a bit. "The last I saw of her the priest and that woman came and took her body away. Michael. Do you think…would you take my body away?"

He shifted and twisted a little so he could see her face. Her youthful face was flushed with hope and sex. Michael tucked his hair behind his ear and hit his cigarette again.

"Where would you want me to take your body?"

Her hopes soared further. She knelt up, heedless of the fact that she was still naked. The sunlight coming through the windows made her a shapely silhouette. "The cemetery. I want to be buried with my mother. I miss her so much."

Michael exhaled clove-flavored smoke, noting the abject longing in the spirit's words. "I'll think about it," he decided. "I don't know though. I kind of like having sex with you. I might want to keep you around."

She deflated visibly, tears brightening her eyes. "I hate this place. Everyone else is free to come and go and I can't. If you move my body, I promise I'll go wherever you want me to. Just free me. Please!"

She clutched at his shoulder then, trying to get some sign of sympathy from him for her plight. He let her do it but wasn't moved by the drama.

"I said I'll think about it," he repeated, tone cooling. "Right now, I have shit to do. And you have a bed to make."

He got dressed then, leaving his cigarette butt smoldering upright on the dresser, in a way that would put it out but not without putting off a bad smell of burning filter first. Moyra barely noticed it through her misery and sobs.

—

Michael found the two lovebirds in the music room, seated together on an old chaise lounge. He had their energy signatures in 'sight' before entering but seeing their physical seemings, for the first time he realized just how young they were. Not that he was all that older than they had been when they died but knowing how much he had changed in the past couple of years put a new and strange lens on Tate particularly.

"Have you seen Mother Constance today?" he said, interrupting their quiet talk without preamble.

They both looked over at him, surprised. Neither had heard him come into the room and neither expected to be seen. He hadn't done anything to tame his bed head and his button-down shirt was uncharacteristically untucked. He probably looked as strange to them as they did to him.

"She hasn't been here," Violet said.

Tate eyed Michael, brows furrowed slightly. He was trying to decide if he was still mad at Michael, or if Michael still harbored ill feelings toward him.

"She's alive. She may try to kill herself here again," Michael said, like one might report a possible thunderstorm. "I would appreciate it if you didn't let that happen."

He left then and the teens exchanged bewildered looks. Then Tate was on his feet and giving chase. He caught up with Michael at the stairs.

"Wait," he said. "You can't just dump that shit and leave. What do you mean, she's alive? The priest and the witch did it? They brought her back?"

"I brought her back," Michael corrected.

He didn't stop, so Tate was forced to follow him down the stairs. Violet brought up the rear of the small group.

"So why would she come here and kill herself?" Tate pressed. Then he sorted through it himself. "Fuck. I told them she wouldn't want to be brought back. Fuck! Is she mad? She's mad, isn't she? Fuck! Does she know I let them have her body? Shit! Shit-shit! She doesn't know, does she?"

Michael didn't look back, but he privately marveled at how quickly the ghost worked himself up into an emotional timebomb. Violet put a hand on Tate's shoulder, but he pulled away, not wanting comfort. He wanted answers!

"She doesn't know," Michael said. He stopped on the stairs and looked back up at the stressed spirit. "If you don't want her to find out, make sure she doesn't hurt herself if she shows up here. And don't let her leave."

He kept going then. This time Tate stayed where he was at. Violet stayed with him but her proverbial hackles were up. "That…asshole!" she swore. She almost called him a son of a bitch but didn't want to insult her mother, even incidentally.

Tate scrubbed his hands through his hair frantically, trying to think clearly. His mother didn't know he'd let the coven walk off with her body, which now had her spirit back in it. He wondered if Constance was a zombie like the priest. He reckoned not or else she wouldn't be in danger of killing herself.

"Maybe she won't come here," he consoled himself. He looked at Violet then. "Right?"

She looked at him blankly then realized he just wanted to compartmentalize. She put on a fake smile. "Yeah. Right. Why would she? She's alive…she can go anywhere. Why would she want to come back here?"

Neither of them believed her. Dead or alive, Constance had always been drawn to the house, possibly stronger than anyone else. It wouldn't surrender its hold on her any easier than it had its other souls.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

It's been a rough week. I didn't realize how brutal summer classes can be. I'm in the 'prepping for finals' stage of this flash semester and it's been a bullet train through hell. Hence the slow update. And about the update...Sorry in advance. It's unedited, so I know there's going to be some weirdness and crap in there. It could use polish. I'll tidy it up ASAP. I just didn't want to keep you guys hanging.

I'm not sure where this puts Tate and Michael. I fully expected them to fight in this chapter, but apparently having sex right before a brawl takes some of the fight out of the Antichrist. Unfortunately for Moyra, her plan didn't help her like she hoped, though.


	34. E5 Chapter 3 - Crash and Burn

Michael fully intended to leave the house but coming off the stairs, he found his path to the door blocked. He paused only a beat before closing in on the individual in his way.

"Get out of my way, Doctor Harmon," he said with a scowl that meant business.

Ben didn't move but he opened his arms to his sides, a gesture intended to convey his desire to talk. "Michael, what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to leave. What are _you_ doing?" Michael countered, tucking his shirt in before closing the last few steps between them.

"I meant with Constance," said Ben. "With Vivien. With Father Jeremiah."

Michael's lips pursed briefly, and he glanced away. He wasn't prepared for such a blunt encounter. Ben saw the moment of weakness and dove at it. It could be his only chance.

"Do you even have a plan?" Ben pressed. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder and felt him twitch.

Michael didn't look at him but stared off broodily into the side room.

"I know you don't want to hurt Vivien," Ben went on, trying to lay down some quick psychological floorboards. "She's your mother."

The statement chafed and Michael pulled away from the man. "No, she isn't. She might've birthed me, but she lived here all this time and never ONCE—" He pulled a sharp breath because his throat was constricting, and his eyes and nose were starting to burn with tears. When he spoke next, he tried to sound calm, but his throat was still too constricted to sound normal. "She's never been a mother to me."

"You're wrong," Ben said with grim confidence. "She wanted me to take you from this place." He flinched at his own failure. The memories still hurt as much as ever. "I was going to but by the time I tried, it was too late. Ghosts in the house strangled me. They wanted you but Constance got to you first."

Michael had heard threads of that story but that was more detail than he'd heard before. He sniffed as the held-back tears made his nose run. "And Vivien just let her take me."

"We were dead, Michael," Ben implored, reaching for him again. "You needed a living adult to take care of you—"

"I don't need anybody!" Michael exploded. He shoved the man away, making sure to connect with the spirit's essence in case the ghost doctor tried to phase out.

Surprised by the sudden, sharp pain that came with the push, Ben was easily swept to the side. He staggered and sat down hard, clutching his chest. He felt like he was having a heart attack and no amount of telling himself that he was dead would stop it.

Michael left the house, slamming the door behind him.

—

The tires of the car squealed on the old, broken pavement as Michael tore around the corner with the gas pedal to the floor. He swung wide, clear across three lanes before straightening out. But even having to correct for his wild driving wasn't enough to take his mind off the encounter with Dr. Harmon.

Tate must have told him about what happened in the attic. Which was stupid because it was all just bullshit anyway. Stuff he had spouted just to screw with Tate since nothing else seemed to get through to him. Now Vivien probably knew, too. That bothered Michael, though he didn't know why. Frustrated, he punched the dashboard a few times.

It was in that distracted moment that he took his eyes off the road and didn't see the large shape that loomed in the fog before him. The sudden impact slammed him forward, into the steering wheel. The world went black.

—

The sound of the hissing radiator was the first thing Michael registered. Next came pain. Lots of pain. His chest and right leg hurt too much to move. Something on his left side felt like it was grinding inside him. He smelled the strong scent of gasoline. Fog had crept in through the busted windshield, hazing his view of the crumpled front end of the car. The engine was almost in his lap.

He tried to open the car door, but it wouldn't budge. Trying to put strength into the motion only brought him more pain. He tried to grasp what had happened, but he hadn't seen what he hit and currently it was a dark mass in the mist. It wasn't moving. It was too big to be another car and the wrong mass to be a truck.

Pain made Michael's head swim. He forced himself to think through the agony. If he could heal others, surely he could heal himself. He had never tried to fix himself on purpose before and he had always suspected his return from the dead had more to do with the Dragon than it had to do with his own self-resurrecting abilities. It was time to find out.

He drew a painful breath and shut his eyes but trying to focus through the pain was extremely difficult. He found himself almost passing out, so he opened his eyes again and just tried to fix the damage that way.

Nothing happened. The pain didn't lessen. He wanted to groan but he didn't want to attract the attention of anything that might be hunting in the fog. He knew he couldn't fight off anything in the state he was in.

Helplessness gave rise to anger. He was supposed to be a living god and yet he couldn't even solve the most basic of curves life was throwing at him. His family was a wreck and now so was his car. The rage ignited him, kickstarting his system. The familiar warm rush of power flowed through him only this time it was his injuries the energy targeted.

Feeling his tissues knit at high speed was a bizarre sensation. It itched but on the inside, in places he couldn't possibly scratch. That soon passed into an electric feeling. In just a few seconds, he felt whole again. Better than before, in fact, as the energy had fixed a number of minor accumulated issues. He was able to pull himself up through the broken windshield where he rolled off the smashed hood of the car to land on his feet in the street.

The damaged headlights flickered on the fog, casting eerie motion over the otherwise still shape ahead. Whatever he hit hadn't moved at all. Either it was dead, unconscious, or something that had never been alive to begin with.

Already he could feel his hunger growing. He knew in just a few seconds he would be ravenous. His healing powers always demanded blood. He was torn between investigating shadowy form and finding a food source. He hated to leave the scene uninvestigated but the idea of gorging himself uncontrollably on some random thing from the fog was too gross. So, he abandoned the mangled car to hunt down something he could stomach.

…

 **One week later…**

Nox was a higher-end nightclub in Sin City. The city was what remained of Las Vegas in the aftermath of the apocalypse. Within the solid concrete walls, one could almost believe the world outside hadn't ended. Diffused lasers cut through darkness in time to an old song by the Cure. Cigarette smoke hazed the air. Glasses clinked as rich patrons sipped exotic alcohols. Two iron cages held dancers, a boy and a girl, both virtually nude and beautiful in their rhythmic throes and contortions.

Zoe had been in the city for nearly three years and found it to her liking. The club scene provided her with plenty of sustenance and her powers insured she only dealt with the wealthiest men. Over the years she had refined her hunting skills and diet, so she didn't have to kill them. It was like eating lite, but it spared her conscience and kept her in a steady supply of men who thought she had simply fucked them senseless.

It had been a good night. Zoe felt a little tipsy from glutting herself on that last client. He had been exceptionally prime, clean and sweet. She hoped he would become a regular. After changing from her strappy black leather lingerie into more comfortable street clothes, she lit a cigarette and headed for the club's back exit.

The pinboard next to the door boasted no new job leads; just a flyer for the upcoming zombie fights. Championship zombie-fighting wasn't Zoe's thing, but it always brought in a rush of new clients. She shoved through the back door and stepped out into a hot night.

"Ah, here she is at last."

Zoe immediately recognized the man's distinct German accent, unchanged after so many years. She turned around, toward the source, and saw him leaning against the wall near the door. He was dressed all in black and was barefoot, his long blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. He looked exactly like she remembered.

"Pietre," she said. "It's been a long time."

"Indeed, it has, my dear," he agreed. "You remember Tisi, Alec, and Meg?"

He made a slight motion with his left hand and the albino triplets seemed to fade from the shadows, flanking her. None looked as old as they should, but they all looked quite a bit worse for wear. Meg especially looked unkempt and hollow-eyed.

"Uh. Yeah," Zoe acknowledged. She was starting to sense this wasn't a friendly reunion. "What do you want, Pietre?"

"Direct as ever," the warlock smiled. "Very well. We will play your way. I want the Daggers of Armageddon."

Zoe hadn't thought of the relics in years. "O…kay. Why?"

"That hardly matters," Pietre said, still smiling. He moved closer to her. "Where are they?"

Zoe stood her ground though she felt a strong urge to step back. The man had always given her a case of the willies and it was even worse now than it had been back in the coven. Of course, that place had been ensorcelled by several generations of witches. Now, Zoe was out in the open, on her own. She could handle human men. She wasn't sure what her odds were against a warlock and his coven.

"The Daggers are safe," Zoe said carefully. "Tell me why you want them, and I'll tell you where they are."

Pietre chuckled. "Such a playful thing," he said, as though he was watching an exotic species of animal cavort. "I want them because they are mine. I only meant for you to borrow and use them, not for you to run off with them."

"You should have been more specific," Zoe smirked. She pulled a last hit off her cigarette then tossed it on the ground.

Pietre's patience reached its limit and he lashed out, catching her by the neck with one hand. The triplets crowded in, ready for anything.

"Where are the Daggers?" Pietre demanded.

His grip was iron around her throat. She clawed at him ineffectively. He was allowing her air, but she didn't want to be restrained. She tried summoning some fire and even felt a bit of a sizzle start at the hem of his coat, but he put it out effortlessly.

"So predictable," the warlock chided. "Just like Madison. You know what that means, children?" He was addressing the albinos now. "Most likely the Daggers are with their pet. What was his name?"

"Kyle," Tisi supplied eagerly.

"He doesn't know where they are," Zoe insisted. "Let me go and I'll show you. I promise."

Pietre gave her a scrutinizing look then smiled. "The promises of a succubus to a man are a petty thing indeed. How about this for a deal instead?" The triplets drew in closer to them, forming a tight ring around her along with the warlock. "How about we take you back to Fiona and you can tell her where the Daggers are? Yes?"

Zoe lowered her chin, trying to loosen his grip that way but he only tightened his hold. "Fiona's dead," she grunted. "We killed her."

His smile widened. "Don't be so sure."

She lashed out with a kick aimed at his shin, but he sidestepped the blow. The triplets were on her in an instant, binding her with ropes that had been ensorcelled for that very purpose. She cursed at them and tried screaming for help, as weak as that was, but Pietre silenced her with a quick sleep spell.

"It won't last long," he warned the trio as they hustled her into the back of the unmarked black van. "Makes sure she's secured inside the pentagram. Triple-check everything before she wakes. We surprised her this time. We won't be so lucky again if she gets free."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

If you haven't read my Season 3 AU story, Zoe's segment should just about catch you up to speed on that side of things. I had fun with Sin City. I might have to write a stand-alone story about the city sometime in the future. Seems like a happening place full of interesting things and people.

So Michael can heal himself now. He's almost very-nearly invincible by practical standards. If there's a second coming of Christ or an emergence of Superman or something to save the world... it better do it quick!

Next time: Michael's birthday is right around the corner and things are getting weird in the Montgomery Mansion.


	35. E5 Chapter 4 - Relics

After a week of laying low, Constance wanted to return to the mansion. It had always drawn her, just as it drew all the souls it desired. Even in the end of days, it continued to draw her, like it had in life and death. And she needed to see her children. They were too delicate, too emotional for her to leave behind permanently. In her mortal form she had less energy than she had grown accustomed to and she felt that would be helped in the house.

Billie Dean wanted to head out of state, but Constance wouldn't hear of it. They spent the week traveling up the coast, avoiding large catlike predators and discovering how little civilization was left in the fog-choked state. Food was hit-and-miss. Bigger towns had been looted or were too dangerous to delve too deeply into. Smaller towns had either boarded everything up or were completely decimated by traveling raiders.

Neither woman was in her prime and neither felt entirely safe relying on the other for protection. It made for restlessness nights even when they camped in relatively nice locations. That night, they stayed in what had been a quaint bed and breakfast, tucked back from the main highway behind a grove of pecan trees. They had to break a window to get in. The place was deserted but well-stocked; someone's business that they had closed up when things were getting bad, with apparent intentions of reopening someday soon.

After they had sealed the window with a length of cardboard scrounged in the garage, the women had settled into the place as best they could. Candle-warmed beans and old bottled water weren't the best of provisions, but it filled their bellies. Despite there being several guest rooms, the women shared a room by unspoken agreement. Even with the door bolted, neither slept very well.

Constance woke several times because the room sounded wrong. It was too still. Trapped in her mortal body, she was cut off from many senses she had grown used to over the years. When the silence woke her yet again, she rolled over onto her back and sighed. She pressed a hand to her forehead and opened her eyes. Then she froze.

Someone was standing at the foot of the bed.

A quick slide of her eyes sideways found Billie Dean's sleeping form still in the other bed. Constance shifted her attention back to the foot of her queen-sized bed and saw the figure still standing there. It was darker than the rest of the room, which appeared almost purple in the moonlight diffused through the thick curtains over the window. The individual wore a wide-brimmed hat, but that was the only feature she could distinguish from its otherwise black form.

Constance tried to call out to Billie Dean but found herself unable to speak or move. It felt too real to be a dream. She was too physical now to be confused about what her remaining senses told her. She could feel the cotton sheets and smell the dusty carpet. One didn't pick up details like that in dreams.

Billie Dean sat up quite suddenly with a loud gasp. "We have to find the Relics!"

The thing at the end of Constance's bed disappeared and she found herself able to move freely again. She sat up as well, grasping at her collarbone reflexively.

"Oh, my God," said Billie Dean as she swung her legs out of the bed. She massaged her temple. "I just had the most insane dream."

Constance was on her feet, pacing, trying to decide whether to get dressed or have a cigarette. "Somethin' was in the room."

"What?"

"Somethin' was in the room!" Constance grabbed her cigarettes and lit one. "Just before you woke up. A dark shape was standin' at the foot of the bed. It went away as soon as you started shoutin'."

Billie Dean lit a cigarette too. Her hair was a mess and looked like she aged a couple of years overnight. "Maybe it sent the dream. I dreamt that Michael had these…things. Relics. Holy items. Unholy items? If he brings them all together and uses them, any hope for restoring the world we knew….is over."

Constance sucked on her cigarette. As much as she wanted to dismiss the dream as being just that, she knew the medium too well. Not everything she saw made sense, but it was usually true.

"Well," she huffed, hugging her middle. "What are we meant to do about it? What _can_ we do?"

Billie Dean side and sank into herself. "I'm…not sure. I just know he can't get them. We can't let him."

Constance paced a few steps, eyes on the ceiling. She used to pray every night. It had been years since she'd said a true prayer. "Why not?"

"Why not?"

"Yes," Constance said quietly. "Why not? Maybe it's time this world was put out of its misery."

Billie Dean flicked her ash on the floor. A tiny sliver of her old self cringed inwardly but they would be gone in a couple of hours and likely never come back to this place. The chances anyone else would see the mess were slim.

"Why even bother resisting any of it, if you feel that way?" Billie Dean wanted to know. "Why not just…let everything happen the way it will, huh? Sweet Jesus," she muttered and rubbed her temple some more.

Constance hit her cigarette then set it on the edge of the dresser so she could change. They had collected a small amount of clothing during their escapade, the first new clothes Constance owned in years.

"Where the hell are we runnin', anyway?" she countered. "We've been narrowly escapin' monsters for a week now and for what? There's nothin' out here to run to."

"So that's it?" Billie Dean said derisively. "We just give up?"

Constance tugged her blouse on and checked her hair in the small mirror above the dresser. She looked hideous: Old and wrinkled. Worn out. She had always hated her wrinkles and had fought back the signs of age ferociously. As a ghost, she could look however she pleased. Over time she had youthened her appearance to what it was when she was at the peak of her beauty, in her late 20s. Before time and life with Hugo and his offspring took their toll on her.

"Michael needs the Relics," Constance said, picking her cigarette back up. She was through defending her desire to return to LA. She looked at the medium through the mirror's reflection. "Well, I know where one of them is."

—

"How do you know it's one of them?" Billie Dean asked later, when they were driving away from the bed-and-breakfast.

Constance watched the road fly by in the gray predawn light. "I heard Michael and Pietre discussin' it a couple of weeks back. Pietre was sayin' somethin' about some relics and Michael said something' about the Seal of Samael. He said he thought Jeremiah had it, but they couldn't find it. I thought then it might be that necklace he always wore. The fool never would take it off. Not even for sex."

"Didn't want to know that," Billie Dean inserted. Fortunately, she had to focus on her driving, so she didn't have to visualize.

"Don't act so prude," sniffed Constance.

"Nothin' to do with prude," said Billie Dean. "I just don't want to think about your sex life."

"Only because yours died long before I did," smirked the other woman.

"About the seal..?" prompted Billie Dean, to get her back on track. The jibe didn't bother her. Not only was it fairly accurate, it was something she would except her old frenemy to say.

"I took it off him when he died," Constance said after a moment, her words strained. Thinking about his crucifixion was painful. "I needed…something, you know? Something of him to remind me…" She fluttered a hand as she choked up.

"Where did you put it?" asked Billie Dean. Not just because she wanted to find out. She knew that pushing the topic ahead would help keep the other woman from cratering to her sorrow.

Constance cleared her throat and when she was composed, said: "It's at the house."

Billie Dean knew exactly which house she meant. "You know we can't let him see us," she cautioned. "After we ran off…He's bound to be angry."

"I can handle Michael," said Constance, with more confidence than she felt. "But you're probably right. We'll go in, get the medallion, I'll say hello to my children—"

"Really, Constance?" Billie Dean boggled. "We really should just—"

"I am going to see my children," Constance stated emphatically. She stared hard at Billie Dean's profile.

The medium spared her a quick glance then pressed her lips together. She badly wanted to tell the woman off, but she also needed her to get the Seal of Samael. So she swallowed the urge to give her a scathing earful and just drove in silence the rest of the way to Los Angeles.

…

Desiree was just a kid when she encountered a zombie outside the cemetery back home in New Orleans. She remembered knowing something was strange about him, especially when he fought off the bullies who tried to steal her Halloween candy. The way he moved and his weird way of communicating let her know something was odd about him. But to her he was a hero. He saved her candy and the boys never came near her again after that.

A few months later, Desiree's powers began to manifest. A few months later, she was living at Miss Robichaux's Academy at the worst possible time. She was brought in having to defend the coven against the Voodoo Queen and her people, something that was especially difficult for her as a biracial believer in voodoo. She wasn't left much choice, though, and when it came down to it, she had to defend herself. Once the line was crossed, there was no going back.

Almost as far back as she could remember, the supernatural had been a part of her life. But even an old hat like her found it strange to be chasing religious fairytales through the wasteland of America. She and two of the other girls of her generation, Azalea and Kerri, had already acquired the Rob of Wormwood for Fiona and Michael. That turned out to be nothing more than a bit of literal wormwood, the sort one would use to brew absinthe.

The Seal of Abaddon and the Pentacle of Ashtaroth were supposed to be in the same location, in Colorado. Driving there was treacherous, between the badly neglected roads and the ice. In one area, several large trees had fallen across the highway and through traffic had made a new path off road. It was a bumpy way to go but it got them around the barricade.

"Don't you think it's kind of…creepy?" Azalea asked after she finished a bite of stale cotton candy. "You know. How he knows shit?"

Desiree, who was driving, shrugged a shoulder. "If he is who everyone says he is, it makes sense he'd know things. He's got one foot in the spiritual plane, the other here. He sees and hears things most people have to do magic to see and hear."

Azalea twirled a dark curl around her finger and thought about that. "I've seen some pretty crazy shit in the spirit world," she admitted. "I remember the first time I got a spirit to contact me through a Ouija board, it didn't go away when I said 'goodbye'. It messed with my shower that night and with the dishes in the morning. I was freaking the fuck _out_. I'm sure my parents thought I was nuts. None of us knew, you know, that shit was real."

"We're here," Desiree announced and put the car in park.

They both looked out through the foggy windshield at the structure before them. The white edifice was three stories with a reddish-brown roof, built in a manner that reminded Desiree of pictures of old asylums.

"The Stanley Hotel," Azalea murmured appreciatively.

"Yeah," agreed Desiree bitterly. "It had to be spooky central. It couldn't be Red Rocks, oh no."

Azalea smiled and unfastened her seat belt. "The sooner we get inside, the sooner we can leave. Besides. We're bad-ass witches. Nobody's gonna mess with us."

…

* * *

Author's Note:

I generally try to keep OC stuff to a minimum but the Wild Hunt traditionally is a pack of witches (or other supernatural entities) and Michael can't be everywhere at once. Not one of his powers, sadly. So he needs some grunts to hunt down the relics for him. Plus I needed some red shirts to send into the Stanley Hotel. For those that don't know, that's the real life inspiration behind the Overlook Hotel in Stephen King's book/film The Shining. I'll be bringing us back to Murder House soon but I promise the visit to the historical haunted hotel will be a fun romp.

Next time: Michael's getting ready for his birthday. A killer celebration takes time to get set up.


	36. E5 Chapter 5 - The Chase

Back in LA, the Bradford Hotel that Michael had commandeered looked like something out of a Hitchcock film. The flat-topped building was crowned with a row of black birds that roosted wherever their claws could find purchase. The fog had closed in on the place, adding to the creepy and abandoned appearance of the place. More crows perched in the overgrown maple tree out front and still more lined the nearby fence and inert powerlines. It truly looked damned.

In one of the two top-floor suites, Michael lit a clove cigarette and looked over at Evangelina. Her bare body was half-covered by the sheet, her long blond hair fanned out behind her like an angel's broken wing. He was naked too but the heat he put off was more than enough to compensate for the chill in the air. They didn't even need to run the hotel's heater, though the generator could support it.

"Do you smoke?" he asked after another puff.

She stirred, turning her head so she could see him. "No."

"I won't offer you one, then." He smiled crookedly at her and she smiled a lazy smile back. "They're hard to come by these days, for most people."

"I know," she acknowledged. "You're very well-connected."

"Don't patronize me," he said, sensing she was doing just that. "I'm not a child."

"Obviously," Evangelina said. She rolled over so she could reach him and pet a hand down his back. She slipped the other between his thighs. "You're a man."

"I'm a dragon."

She started stroking his cock and he thought about putting out his cigarette, but he decided he could enjoy both at the same time. Evangelina knew well how to please a man with her hands. Her blooded father had seen to that. She might still be trying to placate Michael's moodiness, but he approved of her methods. When she got him close to the edge, she took over with her mouth, showing no concern for the fact that they had recently had sex and was surely tasting herself on him.

He nearly dropped the cigarette when he got off, but he managed to recover enough to crush it in the ashtray before losing himself to the delicious sensations her mouth delivered. Afterward, he sprawled out on his back to enjoy the afterglow, one hand draped over his racing heart. Sex, he decided, was unique to each coupling and he wanted to try it with more women. His unplanned tryst with Evangelina proved he could screw a living woman and not kill her, if he just controlled his impulses.

"My birthday celebration is coming soon," he said after a bit. "I would like you to be there."

The pale woman lit a cigarette for him and handed it to him. "I was planning to be." She was confused because she thought that much was already established.

"No, I mean as my companion," he clarified. He accepted the black cigarette. "My consort, if you will."

She hesitated, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't sure," Michael smiled. He exhaled smoke toward the ceiling then rolled to his side so he could see her better.

Evangelina flashed a quick smile. Her first thoughts were of the Order and how they might view such a thing, but she reminded herself that she had left the Order. Their opinions meant little. Still, there was one detail that occurred to her.

"What about Jeremiah?"

Michael shrugged. "What about him? I seriously doubt it would bother him. Anyway, he gave up any claim to you years ago when he started sleeping with Mother Constance."

Evangelina nodded slowly. She still had reservations, but she couldn't pin down what specifically was behind the feeling of misgiving, so she didn't try to articulate it. "What should I wear?"

"Pietre will have something for us," Michael dismissed, unconcerned. "You can change when you get here. It'll be the night of my birthday." He smiled charmingly at her. "No gift required."

...

Kyle could hear the bay of the hellhounds in the distance, an eerie sound that made even his undead skin crawl. The misshapen brutes were all muscle and fang and they had been after him for nearly 48 hours with no sign of tiring. Like Kyle, they had nearly limitless endurance. They would pursue him until they caught him. He had fought one, the first to find him back at Zoe's flat in Sin City. The creature had given him a couple of nasty gashes with its sharp teeth when he refused to let it corner him.

He was able to get away from it by pitching it out the window of the five-story building they were in, but it only bought him time. He had been on the run ever since. Now, facing the dark wasteland that was the Nevada desert, he was faced with the first serious choice he'd had to make in years. He wanted to stay, to wait for Zoe, but she had made him memorize very specific instructions in the event that she ever went missing. He was to take the Daggers of Armageddon to Madison in Seattle. He even knew how to get there, more or less.

Kyle didn't think about it for long. He knew what Zoe wanted him to do.

—

Carrying out the witch's wish proved to be extremely difficult. Kyle couldn't navigate by the stars, though he had the impression he might've been able to, before he died. It seemed like something Old-Kyle knew. During the day he could navigate northeastward by tracking the sun when it wasn't directly overhead, but as soon as it was fully set, he was left roaming in the dark, largely directed by the ever-closer howls of the hellhounds.

On the second night, he was starting to grow concerned that he was going in circles until he found his way to an area where the ground suddenly dropped away. It was a steep gorge, but he was able to scramble down quickly, half-sliding with a hail of dusty rocks. The bottom of the ravine was flat and studded with thorny, dead shrubs that he wove between. He hoped the plants would slow the dogs, but he wasn't counting on it.

He ran and ran, until the rocky desert gave way to the sandy desert. Eventually he found himself running on broken pavement that had nearly been swallowed by the environment. As the sun started to rise, he began to see the skeletal remains of old buildings. After a bit he could see a truck in the distance. When he got to it he could see that it too was virtually a skeleton of its former self, all rusted and falling in on itself. He passed it by.

The remnants of buildings got more substantial as he pressed on. He started to see walls and even some roofs. There were more rusted out vehicles abandoned in front of what looked like a former warehouse or store of some sort. Then he started to see houses. The outlying ones were almost as bad off as the cars he had passed but the houses further along the buried road were fairly intact.

Up ahead, he saw something else that surprised him: A person. They were coming out into the road in front of him. From the shape, he guessed it to be a man. As Kyle got closer he could tell they were carrying something but, it wasn't until the skinny man lifted it and pointed it his direction that Kyle realized it was a shotgun.

Alarmed, Kyle stopped short and raised his hands. He was still several feet away; he hoped he was out of range. "You gotta get out of here!" he hollered. "There's these dogs chasing me…"

The man, who was dressed in dark jeans and a threadbare t-shirt, took aim and squared his stance.

"I'm serious!" Kyle shouted.

Behind him, he could hear the distant bays of the hellhounds closing the distance he'd worked so hard to gain. Infuriated by the hick's silent aggression, Kyle bolted to the right, between two of the old houses. He heard the shotgun go off behind him, but nothing hit him except some chips of ancient paint.

Keeping low as he ran, just in case, Kyle kept between the buildings. He hopped a low, rusty wire fence and was almost to the back of a mostly-dirt yard when he heard the shotgun go off again in the distance. The noise from the hounds reached a frenzied level, with snarls and growls, then Kyle couldn't hear them for several seconds.

That was almost more unnerving than their constant baying. He didn't trust it either and kept going. Sure enough, he could hear the dogs howling again, farther away but heading his direction. He scrambled atop a crumbling brick fence and saw in the morning light a flat, open wasteland of blasted earth. He had found his way to the Nevada Test Site and there was nowhere left to run. He would be an easy target out there.

Looking back at the abandoned work town he had just run through, he thought about trying to seal himself in one of the old buildings, but he seriously doubted any of them could withstand a single hellhound, let alone a pack of them.

The first infernal beast arrived, followed quickly by the rest. Kyle braced himself to fight them all. Behind them, he saw Pietre and his creepy triplets. The hounds were almost to the wall where Kyle was crouched when the warlock lifted a hand.

"Hold," Pietre said. He didn't raise his voice, but Kyle and the dogs heard him quite clearly.

The distorted beasts halted where they were, keeping their beady black eyes on the young man they had treed.

"Well, that was certainly entertaining," Pietre said in a bright way. "Wasn't it, children?"

The albino triplets didn't look amused at all as they closed in on where the pack had congregated. They were collectively sick of following the runaway construct. They didn't have a limitless supply of energy or patience.

Pietre wasn't counting on their vocal support; he didn't even wait for it, really. "Very entertaining. So, Kyle. What shall it be? Are you going to come along like a good little boy? Or shall we let the hellhounds eat you? I'm not sure but I don't think that's something even you'll be able to heal up from. It should be interesting to see either way."

Kyle eyed the pack of distorted dogs below him. He could tell they would like nothing more than to tear him apart. He could see fresh blood on the muzzles of a few. He wondered how many he could take out before they shredded him.

"Now, don't be like that," Pietre admonished. "Fiona would prefer you brought back whole. Besides, you want to see Zoe, don't you?"

Kyle perked, eyes on the barefoot warlock. "Where's Zoe?"

The man smiled smugly. "You'll only find out if you surrender. Now come down off that wall and stop making a spectacle of yourself."

Kyle considered his options then carefully started to pick his way down. "You'll take me to Zoe?"

"That was always the plan, silly boy," Pietre agreed. Then, to the dogs: "Back."

The hellhounds fell back, though several offered throaty growls when Kyle passed them.

"Put the collar on him, Alec," Pietre instructed the pale man.

Alec pulled a black leather collar from the pack he carried. It was a sturdy thing that one would put on a large dog. Kyle took a couple of steps back when Alec came at him with it. The nearest dog nipped at the back of his knee.

"If you want to see Zoe, you'll stop this pointless resistance," advised Pietre. He was growing bored with the antics of the witch's untrained pet.

It went against his instincts to submit and let Alec belt the collar on him. The guy added further indignity to the situation by snapped a chain lead onto the o-ring that was set into the thick band.

"Don't bother trying to take it off at any point," the warlock went on, as though they were casually chatting. "It won't come off until I say. And considering how well it suits you, I don't think that will be for a very, very long time."

He looked around at the triplets but none of them were in the mood to appreciate his cleverness, not even Tisi. So he gave an order to the hellhounds to feast on anything living they could find in the rest of the rundown town then he and the triplets took their captured quarry back to Los Angeles.

Back to Fiona.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter was brought to you by the Lost Highway soundtrack and my love of post-apocalyptic oldie horror like The Hills Have Eyes and Damnation Alley. I'll admit I've even watched a few things like Toxic Avenger. I imagine the hellhounds had some mutant meat for supper...

Michael's truly hit his 'rock star' stride. I can appreciate wanting to have a lot of sexual partners but making it a bucket list item? I can't decide if that's conceited or nerdy. He is 'grandma's boy' after all.

Next time, we'll catch up with Zoe and also, Tate's got a decision to make.


	37. E5 Chapter 6 - All Are Punished

((This portion of the chapter is best accompanied by Marilyn Manson's cover of 'Cry Little Sister'.))

The central fire pit of the Bradford Hotel lobby was lit. The dancing flames cast flickering gold and red light over everything in the high-ceilinged room. Clusters of half-melted emergency candles randomly placed around the room guttered independently, twinkling muted stars in the otherwise dark room. Incense and the scent of clove cigarettes perfumed the warm air.

Fiona was seated in a large cream-colored wingback chair, not far from the screened fire pit. Her legs were crossed like scissors, black pumps sharpening her toes to wicked points. Her black dress contrasted severely with the pale chair.

Cordelia was seated to the left of the Supreme. Her black and white pantsuit and stiletto heels polished her appearance, but the perceptive eye would catch the shadows of strain beneath her mismatched eyes. To Fiona's right sat Michael, his black outfit mostly hidden by a black velvet topcoat he'd found on one of his many excursions around Los Angeles. The fancy coat was in danger of being wrinkled by the negligent way he sprawled in his chair.

Other coven members were scattered about the sitting area as well, keeping to the shadows. Evangelina was among them, her features hidden by her hooded black cape. The entire room's focus was on the arrival of Pietre, the albino triplets, and the captive they brought in with them. Alec guided Kyle before them with the help of a man-catcher pole attached to the iron collar they had put on the young man. When they were a few feet from the witches, Fiona lifted a hand and they stopped.

"You," Fiona said, the word full of accusation.

She made a sharp motion toward the floor and Kyle dropped into a position of supplication, bowed prostrate beyond his own control. He tried to get up, but his body was locked where it was. Alec unhooked the pole and moved back with it, out of the way of the witch.

"I took you in," the Supreme said imperiously, rising from her chair. She closed in on Kyle with measured, predatory steps. "Protected you. Cleared your head and made you whole. When everyone else had given up on you, I restored you." She ran a hand through his hair almost lovingly, then seized him by it. "And how did you thank me?"

"I'm sorry, Fiona," he said. His voice worked even if his limbs wouldn't.

"You let those little bitches stuff me in a freezer!" Fiona yanked his head up, so he had to look at her. "And then you ran away with them!"

He blubbered another apology and her expression seemed to soften for just an instant. She bent and leaned in till her face was right up close to his. It was impossible for him to avoid eye contact with her so close.

"You don't deserve my gift," she said.

She tilted her head like she was going to kiss him, but she didn't. She inhaled deeply and a thin, wispy vapor emerged from him, resisting the pull. The magic was hers, though, and she was determined to reclaim it. She drained her power from the undead youth then released him, physically and from the magical hold she'd had on him.

Kyle fell to the floor, stunned. He couldn't think right. Words skittered all over the place, just out of reach. He still had memories of his experiences, but they had lost their order and sense. He couldn't even recall the name of the settlement he and Zoe had been living in the past few years. Everything was scrambled up and whirling around in his brain like a shaken snow globe.

He grabbed his head as pressure built up, making him nauseous. He looked up at the Supreme, anguished. He got a cool stare in return. He grunted at her and reached for her foot, but she pulled it back out of his reach.

"Get him out of my sight," she told the triplets.

Alec reached for his collar, but Kyle gave an angry yell and grabbed the man by the arm. He flipped Alec to the floor, nearly breaking the albino's arm. The collar hit Kyle with a jolt of dark energy that stunned him long enough for Tisi to get the man-catcher pole connected to his collar.

The collar was something Pietre had devised, identical to ones he had crafted for Madison and Zoe. The effects of the enchanted devices were immediate, restraining the powers and free will of the witches. Kyle wasn't a witch, so his collar functioned more like a traditional shock collar, with similar advantages and disadvantages.

"Chain him up in the basement with the succubus until we get suitable cages made for them," Fiona instructed irritably. "Make sure they can't touch each other."

—

Later, in one of the second-floor hotel rooms, Pietre paced slowly, one fist clasped behind his back. The barefoot warlock carried a thin black cane with him that made a soft thudding noise on the floor with each step he took. The triplets were lined up, wearing just their underwear, each too cowed to lift their heads.

"To say I am disappointed," Pietre intoned, the words thickened by his German accent. "Would be an understatement."

He had a more scathing follow-up planned but he heard a soft sound behind him and turned to look at Tisi. The oldest triplet's shoulders were slumped, and her face was pinched with the effort not to cry. Her tears broke free when he came over to stand beside her.

"What's this?" he asked in feigned wonder. He shoved his knuckle under her chin and forced her face up, then smudged at the moisture on her cheek with his thumb. "Tears? Is it possible someone here understands how poorly they performed?" He let her go and her head dropped. When she didn't volunteer anything, Pietre leaned into her personal space, his lips almost brushing her ear. "Tisi? Can you tell me what you did wrong?"

The white-haired young woman shut her eyes as a delicious shudder went through her. She was irresistibly drawn to him when the warlock was so close. She couldn't help turning her head, trying to catch his mouth with hers. He pulled back with a hint of a sadistic smile and, when she opened her eyes to that look, Tisi flushed in humiliation.

"We took too long capturing the beast-boy," she mumbled, ducking her head again to hide the fresh tears of shame. "We were seen by others."

"Yes indeed," Pietre agreed. "A disappointment."

He grabbed her shoulder then and turned her around. He brought the cane up and lashed her viciously across her backside three times; the last one was hard enough to draw a thin line of blood through the fabric of her panties. Then he placed a hand between her shoulder blades and gave her a shove. Though the push itself wasn't very forcible, the cantrip that the gesture set off sent her sailing across the room where she was slammed face-first into the corner. The collision knocked her out but Pietre's magic kept her upright despite her limp legs.

Pietre moved down the line to Alec. Like his sisters, the young man wouldn't lift his eyes from the floor. His heart was racing so fast, he felt faint. He knew what was coming.

"Alec," the warlock purred in a condescending way. He went behind the younger man and slipped a hand over his shoulder, right up close to his pale throat. "What did we learn today?"

Alec flinched. There were several possible right answers and he knew he would choose wrong. The question was rigged. "Be more cautious when handling a flesh golem..?"

"That would be a good idea, yes," Pietre agreed in that tone that said Alec was close but still missing the point. "How about not letting him throw you around like a ragdoll?" The blond man brought the cane down hard across Alec's ass, eliciting a yelp.

"It happened so fast," the albino said and would have added more but the cane cracked down again and his words dissolved into a pained cry.

"You've been trained in hand-to-hand," Pietre reminded in that too-calm way that didn't mask his rage from the siblings. "You were surprised, and you were sloppy. You're fortunate you are not _dead_."

He struck the young man twice more, drawing blood through the young man's underwear, just like he had with Tisi. When he was done, he made another motion that sent Alec flying across the room, into another corner. He managed to stay conscious after impact, though he was left with blood dripping from his nose.

Pietre shifted his attention to the youngest of the triplets. Meg was the most rebellious of the three; they had a tempestuous history together. Many times, the warlock had come close to killing her because of her fiery nature but it was that same untamed heat that he prized in her. Breaking her down was always a source of vicious pleasure for him.

"And what do you have to say for yourself, sweet little Meg?" he goaded, tapping the backs of her thighs with the cane.

"We could have done better," she responded quietly.

Meg stared at the floor without blinking. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of drawing a fear reaction from her, no matter how she felt inside. But he knew her too well: He recognized the stone-face act and it amused him.

"You could have done better," he repeated thoughtfully as he circled her. "Well. You certainly couldn't have done much worse."

She tensed at the unfair assessment, but she knew better than to speak her mind. She also knew she ought to apologize but she couldn't force the words from her lips. The way she saw things, she hadn't done anything wrong and neither had her siblings. So, she just stood there, mutely staring at the floor.

"That's all you have to say?" Pietre prodded. When she continued to stand there, he clucked his tongue in a disapproving fashion. "Why must you always be so difficult? I'm starting to think you like being punished."

He lit into her with the cane then, laying seven fierce blows across her bottom and thighs, harder than he had hit her siblings. Then he waved her into another corner of the room—the only one left clear of furniture. The thin girl gave a pained grunt when she slammed into the wall. The striped welts on her backside oozed blood that stained her well-worn panties and trickled down her thin legs.

With all three of his wayward apprentices efficiently pinned for the next hour, Pietre entered the next hotel room over using the pass-through door that connected the rooms. He shut the door behind himself and turned his attention to the king-sized bed in the center of the room, and the occupant in it.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter has hints of the influence of Stephen King's 'The Stand' and the films 'Lost Boys' and 'The Craft'. I listened to a lot of Marilyn Manson and several Depeche Mode covers while writing the last couple of chapters of this episode. Highly recommended for the next chapter too. It's the last one of this episode. Next episode we'll be celebrating Michael's 20th birthday! He's pretty darned excited about it, even if some people are intent on ruining it for him.

By the way, I've learned that FanFic is eating some of the reviews that are being left. I love reviews! But you may have better luck sharing your thoughts with me through IM. If you don't want a reply, just send an anonymous message. Your feedback can affect how much time I spend on characters so feel free to tell me who you like and don't.


	38. E5 Chapter 7 - Chained Lady

Madison pushed herself up when the hotel room's adjoining door opened. Seeing Pietre, her mouth formed a tense line. The warlock had chained her by her restraining collar to the wrought iron bars of the headboard which was, in turn, bolted to the wall. Like the triplets, he allowed her only undergarments to wear: Her lacy bra and panties. She kept the blankets pulled up high when he came in and pushed the door shut behind himself. She had heard most of what had happened next door: the worst of it, anyway.

"Children," Pietre sighed. He smiled and shook his head. "When they are good, they are very, very good. But when they are bad…"

"Why do you call them children?" Madison sassed. Fear made her edgy. "They're as old as I am."

He smiled and came around the side of the bed closest to where she was cocooned. Propping the cane against the bedside table, he took up a position right beside her. "They are my children."

She had to look up to see his face. It was even more intimidating than seeing him come in with that cane right after she heard him beating the triplets. "I thought they said you found them or something. How old are you, anyway?"

"I lost count six hundred years ago or so," he responded casually.

She wasn't sure whether he was serious or not. "You said you had cigarettes," she said, to change the subject.

"So I did," he agreed. He nodded to the bedside table.

Madison hesitated then reached for the narrow drawer. Stashed within it was a tarnished silver cigarette case and a Zippo lighter. There was also a lightweight ceramic ashtray. She opened the silver case and found it stocked with thin, black cigarettes.

"Cloves?" she ventured after a delicate sniff.

"It's what Fiona and Michael prefer," Pietre acknowledged.

"I guess I don't have to worry about bleeding lungs," Madison realized out loud and lit one. It tasted strangely sweet and rich. Not at all like a Marlboro.

"No. You don't have to worry about that."

She didn't like the way he was hovering over her like a vulture, but she pretended not to care. "How long are you going to keep me chained up like this?"

He smiled a lazy smile; his blue eyes were unreadable. "Not long, I would imagine. Fiona has Zoe and Kyle now, and the Daggers. There are witches out hunting for the other Relics. We already have some of them, apart from the Daggers."

"Which ones?"

He laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know? You curious thing. You'll know soon enough."

Madison didn't like the sound of that. "What do you even need me for, if you have the Daggers?"

Pietre plucked the cigarette from her hand and put it out in the ashtray. She started to object since she had just lit it, but he pressed his fingers over her lips. They smelled like the cigarette—and blood.

"Fiona is still harboring a grudge about the way you and your friends turned against her," Pietre informed her without concern. "She won't forgive or forget easily. Until then, all three of you are being held at…her majesty's leisure, as it were. You are here, in this nice room, because I wish it. But if you would rather be in a cage in the basement, like Zoe and Kyle, that can be arranged."

He lowered his hand then and she stared up at him, silently digesting what he said. As the silence grew, his smile did as well.

"You always were a clever girl," he said, sliding into the bed with her.

His silky, black clothes brought a chill to her nearly bare skin as he pressed against her. He kissed her, hard and demanding. Soon, he was crawling on top of her, tugging off her flimsy underwear. She could say no; she could try to fight him off but, collared as she was, she had no real ability to defend herself. It was tamper-proof, locked and hexed. She didn't want to risk making her position worse by trying to fight him and failing so, she let him do what he wanted and tried to blank it out when he got rough. She had blanked out far worse in the past.

Later, when she was alone again and drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, she comforted herself by envisioning all the brutal ways she would like to see Pietre come to his end. She had no way of knowing that, just one room over, Meg was thinking similar thoughts in her bed.

…

 _((Cue up "Cage of Bones" by Son Lux for this bit))_

"I can't believe I'm back here," Billie Dean muttered to herself.

The gray-haired medium put the car in park alongside the cracked curb and unfastened her seatbelt. Constance was already out by then and approaching the overgrown wrought iron gate. She was transfixed by the place, moving like a sleepwalker. No matter how many times she was in its presence, the house always had the same effect on her; the same effect it had when it first drew her to it. Returning to it, for her, was always a return home.

When Constance reached for it, the gate swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges. A ghost of a smile touched her lips and she headed up the walkway, toward the front porch. A light breeze swirled the fog that hung over the dead grass and stirred a mobile made of crow's bones that in the big tree out front. The grotesque creation she recognized as Tate's handiwork.

Looking at it objectively, there was art to it. He had been very painstaking in the arrangement of bones, to keep the avian appearance while giving it a whole new purpose. The skull sat on top with a length of sinew run through a crack in the apex, to attach it to the tree branch.

Seeing it set off a series of flashbulb memories that staggered her: Charles Montgomery, helping her grind up her cheating husband's body in the basement, to feed to the dogs. The dead pets Adelaide had hidden in trash bags in her bedroom. The horrific parade of dead animals Michael was responsible for. Tate's first attempt at taxidermy on a turtle when he was six. He said Charles had told him how to do it. He had been so proud of his work.

"Constance?" Billie Dean asked, touching her shoulder.

The woman snapped out of her trance and rubbed her forehead. She forced a smile. "I'm fine," she lied. "Just…memories. The old place always stirs them up."

"I'll bet," muttered the psychic dryly.

She wasn't having an easy time of things herself. As soon as she set foot on the property, her sixth sense was screaming. She had been to Murder House many times before and had even lived in it up until recently. Something was different now. The whole place was charged up, a veritable power plant of supernatural energy. It wasn't welcoming to her, either.

Constance stepped onto the porch. As with the gate, when she reached for the handle, the front door swung open. Billie Dean came along behind her at a slower pace, mistrusting the situation.

"Constance, maybe we should rethink this," she said, hesitating just shy of the porch. She hugged herself and looked up at the dark windows above. "This doesn't feel right."

"Nonsense," the blonde woman dismissed with a short laugh. "This is my house. What's there to rethink?"

She stepped inside the shadowy foyer. Billie Dean started after her, but the door slammed shut in her face. She grabbed the handle, but it wouldn't move.

"Constance!" Billie Dean shouted and pounded on the door.

There was no answer.

xxx

* * *

Author's Note:

I know it's only been a couple of days since my last update but I really wanted this piece to go with the last one. If I posted them together, though, that would've been one honkin-huge chapter. So. Here's the rest. And another cliffhanger. Sorry! I promise you'll find out what becomes of Constance next time.

This is the last chapter of this Episode. Next Episode's called " **Black Celebration** ". Michael's turning 20! And it's going to be a party to remember...


	39. E6 Chapter 1 - Murder House

**1932**

Anthony Kane had purchased the Montgomery estate with the help of his mother, Agnes. The property was so big, he had hoped the space would allow him room to live his own life, or at the very least provide him more privacy than he'd had growing up. It hadn't worked out that way, though. While cleaning the place up took a lot of time, his mother still found plenty of opportunities to hound him about his hygiene and his lack of ambition.

He tried to ignore her nitpicking, but once the cleaning was all done, she had even more time to seek him out. And she would. She would come find him in whatever room he'd sealed himself in. She would barge right in without knocking or apology for interrupting him yet again. What he was doing behind that door didn't matter: He wasn't allowed to have secrets from her, even though he was nearly 30 years old.

She had caught him masturbating a couple of months ago when she barged in on him in the bathroom of all places. To punish him for such dirty behavior, she had turned on the hot water and let it run till it steamed. Then she forced him to wash his hands in the scalding water while she watched and berated him for being so disgusting.

The burns had nearly healed but were hidden now by blood. Her blood.

They had had another fight, this time over the dishes. He had put a saucer in the sink instead of washing it immediately.

"The bugs!" she had nagged him. "Every time you leave dishes in the sink, it attracts the bugs! I don't want the kitchen full of them. They walk all over the plates and spoons and everything. And you know what else those beasts walk in, Anthony. They walk in filth! Feces! Do you want to eat feces?"

He had said something to her then, but the words were a blur. Somehow the marble rolling pin found its way into his hand and he hit her with it, right on the head, as hard as he could. Her eyelids fluttered and then blood poured out of her nose and her mouth. There was a lot of blood, but she still tried to talk.

He hit her again and again, to shut her up, until she lay on the floor and didn't get up. Her head was a pulpy mess, unrecognizable by the time he dropped the rolling pin. Her blood spread so fast he didn't have a chance to sidestep it.

Anthony stood staring at the mess he had created, shocked by his own actions. He felt disconnected from the moment and was beginning to believe it was all just a very intense fever dream.

"The head is a loss," said a man behind him. "But the rest might be salvaged."

Anthony spun around so fast he nearly knocked himself off balance. He hadn't heard anyone come into the room. The man standing there had brown hair and wore an old-fashioned suit and tie. He was donning a surgeon's gown over his clothes and it, too, was old-fashioned.

"Well, don't just stand there, man," the fellow said to Anthony. "Lift her up. Let's get her to the basement."

Anthony blinked a few times, finding it hard to concentrate. He felt drugged. It had to be a dream. So, he went with it. He lifted his mother's body by the armpits and dragged her to the basement. Once there, he deposited the bleeding corpse on the operating table there. The whole area was hazed in a light mist that diffused the supernaturally bright lighting. Everything looked new and clean, another sure sign the whole thing was a dream. While Anthony watched, the doctor proceeded to part out his mother's body with a bone saw. The man talked to himself while he worked. In the end, he jarred up her organs and called the rest a loss.

The police found Anthony three days later, wandering the streets naked, muttering to himself about "the bugs". He was arrested, assessed, and shipped off to a mental ward. The mansion was eventually foreclosed on and put up for sale again, with no record of Agnes Kane's disappearance or murder.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

 **2032**

The door shut behind Constance and a strong sense of nostalgia swept over her, so powerful it made her gasp. She closed her eyes and for a few moments, she was transported to the past.

"Trick or treat!" Adelaide cried joyfully from the stairs. She was 10 years old and wearing a dark green and red holiday dress.

"Not trick or treat," her father Hugo corrected her from the doorway to the great room. He was holding 5-year-old Tate in his arms. Both were dressed for the occasion. "It's 'merry Christmas', Addie."

"Merry Chrissumess!" Tate cheered.

Beauregard started to howl from his highchair in the kitchen because he felt left out. The sound shattered the moment and brought the blonde woman out of her reverie. The real house was silent and dark. Dead.

Constance plucked a cigarette from her purse and lit it, needing the smoke to soothe her. The past was too heart-wrenching to dwell on for long. She blinked back tears and tried to focus on why she was there. Jeremiah's medallion: She was there to retrieve it.

She headed up the stairs, on high alert. She wasn't afraid of death. She was concerned that someone in the house who hated her might do something worse than kill her. She hugged herself as she ascended the boxy stairs, feeling strangely aware of her mismatched wardrobe as she went. She felt like a bag lady in her own home. She put the odd feeling as far from her thoughts as she could and headed for the attic pull cord.

The attic was even darker than the house, but Constance was able to navigate by the slivers of light that the dormers let in. She knew exactly where to go. Jeremiah's medallion was right where she had stowed it. Despite the chill in the air, the metal pendant was warm when she took it in her hand.

"Here it is, Billie Dean," she said.

It was only then that she realized the medium wasn't with her. She scrunched her eyes shut briefly, feeling dizzy. Thinking back, she knew Billie Dean couldn't have been with her. It just hadn't registered. But if the woman wasn't with her, where was she?

Constance dropped the medallion into her purse, put the cigarette out, and left the attic. She didn't trust her senses at the moment. She knew she needed to get the pendant out of the house before she lost herself entirely to memories and the urges she could feel tickling her thoughts; a growing desire to rejoin the dead.

She got as far as the front foyer when she heard a voice behind her.

"Mama?" Tate asked. "Where are you going?"

Constance paused and had to look back. He stood there right behind her, looking just as alive as could be, half-swallowed by his oversized mustard-yellow sweater. His expression was impossible to read, so she saw what she wanted to see.

"I've got to give somethin' to Billie Dean," she explained. "Then I'll be back." She kissed his forehead then went to open the door.

It wouldn't budge.

"Michael doesn't want you to leave," Tate said. He came closer, his worn Chucks squeaking on the wood floor.

Constance turned back to him and arched a brow. "Since when do you care about what Michael wants?"

She had him there.

"He said you left," the teen sulked at her, rather than answer her question.

Constance let go of the door handle and went over to where her son slouched. She cupped his round face with her hands and caressed his cheeks. Tried to pet away the look of mistrust.

"You can see plain as day that I didn't leave," she pointed out rationally. "Michael lies when it suits him. He's a lot like his father that way." Her words cooled at that last.

Tate caught the subtle barb and looked away. A tear was dislodged with the quick glance and she gently wiped it up.

"I'm gonna go out there now and give Billie Dean what she's waitin' for," Constance reiterated, her chin tucked down and brows high. She was instructing him as well as informing him. She would never get out of the house otherwise. "Then I will be right back. I promise."

She let go of him then and took a step back, toward the door. He sulked at her some more but when she tried the handle this time the door opened freely. She said a silent prayer of thanks that her boy was still, at the core, her boy. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped outside.

Billie Dean was down at the car by that point, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the front bumper. She straightened up when she saw the front door open.

"Constance!" she cried, dropping her cigarette as she hurried toward the woman who emerged.

They met midway up the sidewalk to the porch. Constance reached in her purse and pulled out the necklace. "This is it," she told the other woman, pressing it into her hand. "Keep it safe."

Billie Dean took it, but she shook her head, not understanding. "Why give it to me? You—"

"I'm not comin' with you," Constance said. She tried to force a smile, but it crumbled and fell apart, leaving a fragile, weary look.

"What?" Billie Dean said, trying to smile too because she wanted this to be a joke. "Of course, you're coming. We have to—"

"No," Constance cut her off again. " _You_ have to. I have stay here. I have…unfinished business." She gave the medium's hand a squeeze with both of hers, trying to impart an ocean of feeling in that one gesture. "I would only slow you down, anyway. I'm not as young as I used to be."

They both shared a short laugh that was almost ironic. Then Billie Dean grabbed her in a fierce hug which Constance returned.

"All the visions I've been having," the psychic sniffled when she let go. "And I didn't see this coming."

"Go on, now," said Constance, waving her away, wanting her gone before they both broke down bawling. "Time's wasting."

Billie Dean took a breath, wanting to say more, but she realized that there was nothing left to say. So, she put on a resigned smile and headed back to the car. She paused before getting in, to take one last look at the house she hoped she would never see again.

Constance was on the porch by then, watching her from the shade of the tiled awning. The blonde woman raised a hand in silent farewell. Billie Dean did the same thing, then got into her car. She reminded herself of all the reasons she would be glad to be done with Constance Langdon and her fucked up family. It helped stem the flow of her tears a little as she drove away.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

This update comes later than usual due to the death of my partner. I have a couple of chapters written ahead and this is my escape hobby, so I won't be going on hiatus. Just wanted to let you know what's going on with the erratic posting. I've had my hands full taking care of things and things will be busy for a bit longer as we say goodbye.

This chapter brings us home, literally. 100 years of horror in one location. Anthony and his mom were inspired by Psycho. His mom was the first at the mansion to flip out about cleanliness and keeping the house tidy. She's the one Tate saw in the halls when he was little.

Next time: We're taking a trip to the other side.


	40. E6 Chapter 2 -A Matter of Death and Life

Constance pushed the door shut behind her and leaned against it for a moment, head bowed. She needed to collect herself before she could push forward. Her whole existence felt like an uphill struggle. She was in the Red Queen's race: Running full-speed, just to hold her ground. She had to steal precious seconds of rest where she could.

Eventually she pushed herself off the door and wandered toward the back stairs, wobbling on her high heels. Faint blue lights flickered on as she descended the stairs to the basement. The air was hazy, but she couldn't smell any smoke, just a faintly sweet scent. She could hear old-timey music playing and it brought a wan smile to her lips. She recognized the song: The Big Rock Candy Mountain. It sounded like it was playing on Tate's old toy record player.

"I told you I'd be back," she said and followed the sound into the shadowy recesses of the basement.

She found him sitting on the floor with his back to her, the record player beside him. Dust on the red record filled the music with static and every few seconds the song gave a soft hiccup as the needle reached a deep scratch in the disc.

"That old thing," she murmured, nostalgic again. "You used to listen to it for hours."

Tate sank into the oversized sweater. He didn't want to be reminded of all those hours by himself. His mother was drunk and/or passed out during a lot of that time, which left him alone with the monsters. "Did that psychic go away?"

Constance wrapped an arm around her middle. "She left, yes," she said, interjecting a subtle but deliberate correction to his phrasing. "Tate, baby. I need you to do something for me."

He looked over his shoulder at her then, attention caught by the way she spoke. When he saw the look on her face, he turned around fully. She extended a hand to him and, after a brief hesitation, he took it. He got to his feet and she led him back to where Dr. Montgomery's tools were.

"I need you to help me die," she told him as she fingered the various sharp surgical instruments. "And I need you to…to get rid of the body afterward this time. Cremation would be best but…well. Whatever works. I have to stop my sister from trying to do this to me again. Here. This should work."

She pressed a long scalpel into his hand. Tate stared at it then looked at her. Panic seized him.

"I can't," he said, trying to give the scalpel back. She wouldn't take it. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," she insisted, tears of frustration welling up. "You've killed before. You can do it again!"

She grabbed his wrist and tried to direct the scalpel in his hand toward her throat, but he dropped the knife with a sob.

"I can't, Mama!" Tate started to cry in earnest, confused and scared. "Don't make me!"

Constance sighed heavily and let go of his arm. "It's all right, sweetheart," she said wearily. On some level she was comforted by his refusal, inconvenient though it was. "I'll do it myself."

Tate sniffled and more unhappy tears dripped off his chin. His mother wasn't making any sense. He wasn't sure if it was his fault or not. He watched as she bent and retrieved the scalpel. She straightened and positioned the shiny blade in the center of her wrist. She was about to make a cut when a gentle, cool hand covered hers.

"There's a better way," Charles said right behind her.

She didn't resist when he took the surgical knife from her hand. It was a tremendous relief for her to let him take control of the moment. It was like the day she met him, there in the basement, while looking for her wayward daughter. All of her stress and anxiety melted away in a foggy haze. She barely felt the cold steel of the operating table when he helped her stretch out on it. Everything was going to be all right.

He fitted the nitrous mask over her face. "Breathe deeply and count backward from sixty."

She felt someone touch her hand and, glancing that way, she saw Tate. He was still crying and looking lost. Even if she had longer than sixty seconds, Constance knew she wouldn't be able to explain to him why everything was happening the way it was. As the world started to float and drift away, she told herself that she would make it up to him later, when she was a spirit again.

She had died in the house once before, under less ideal circumstances. She relaxed into her last moments like a spa treatment. She thought she knew what to expect in the transition from living to dead.

She was wrong.

…

As if in a dream, Constance felt herself falling. There was blackness all around and it was colder than ice. She fell and fell and then suddenly there was solid ground under her back. She hit hard but somehow managed not to be winded when she got to her feet.

To her horror, she was naked. She wasn't alone either.

"Constance!" Jeremiah exclaimed and threw a soft, dark robe around her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I couldn't move fast enough to catch you."

"J-Jeremiah?" the woman stammered in shock. She clutched the robe closed with one hand and reached for his face with the other, needing to touch him. "Is it really you?"

He let her pet his face and hair then he put an arm around her to gather her close. He took a quick look around the barren valley they were in. "It's me," he assured. "You're not supposed to be here."

"And you are?" she lashed out, regaining her composure. "Where the hell is 'here', anyway?"

"We're outside of the City of Dis," he said. "This isn't the best place for explanations. We need to get you someplace safe till we can get you out of here."

"City of where?" asked Constance. "Is that a new settlement?"

He surprised her by literally sweeping her off her feet. "It will be faster if I carry you," he explained belatedly. His way spared her dignity and saved them time that would have been lost fighting about it if he had asked.

"City of what?" she reiterated, not about to be put off. "You can explain while you walk."

"We're in the underworld," he said, unable to find a better way to put it. "The City of Dis is what's making the red glow in the sky."

She looked ahead and saw the black, starless sky faded to red just beyond the mountains that walled them in. "We're in hell?" She grabbed his neck and shoulders in a panic, briefly obscuring his view.

"No," he grunted, adjusting his hold on her so he could see again. "The underworld isn't a place of punishment. It's just a place. But it's not a place for you."

She loosened her grip but kept her arms around his shoulders. She wasn't averse to touching him; this was the Jeremiah she knew. "Are you aware that your body is up and walkin' around without you in the real world?"

He glanced at her, visibly disturbed. "I—Er. No." He frowned. "I'm not doing anything embarrassing, am I?"

Constance pursed her lips. "Nothing a survivalist wouldn't do."

"Comforting," he said, not very comforted.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to my master," said Jeremiah. "If anyone can and will send you back, it's him."

"Send me back?" she echoed. Everything was happening so fast she had no chance to process it properly. She still hadn't entirely wrapped her mind around the fact that she was in the underworld and Jeremiah was acting like himself. "I'm only goin' back if you come with me."

The man was tempted to set her down to talk, but he knew they couldn't afford to dawdle out in the open. There were too many rogue entities out in the wilds that would love to take a swipe at them.

"We'll see if that's possible," he compromised.

...

The settlement of New 'Salem had expanded quite a bit in the past few months. The fog that covered much of the world now wasn't a deterrent; just a new normal. There wasn't even an outer wall to the village anymore and the last perimeter wall that went up was flimsy; a cosmetic barrier at best. Shops and cafes sprang up but mostly there were cults. Lots and lots of micro-religions settled in the village, devoted to the worship of Satan, the grigori, and to Michael personally. If there were any who didn't support the Fallen, they didn't make themselves publicly known. Crucifixion in the public square awaited any who dared speak out against the Antichrist.

Public bloodletting practices were becoming more popular in the square: Ritual sacrifices and tributes from loyalists who wanted to show their willingness to offer their own blood to Michael. For some, it would be a dream come true to have the young leader feed directly from them and they ritualistically sliced themselves open in front of the First Church in hopes of getting his attention.

Michael was rarely at the church, though. After the coven took over the bunker in the Hills, he had been spending most of his time at the Bradford Hotel. But now, with Fiona not wanting her captives to sully her personal space in the Hills, the coven had returned to the old base. All the flip-flopping tempted Michael to hold his birthday celebration at the bunker but, with as many people as there were in New 'Salem, he bowed to Misty Day's counsel and opted to hold it at Ford Theatre instead. The outdoor venue was big enough for any size of crowd that wanted to attend and right next to the Hollywood Hills settlement. His entourage could retreat there following the public festivities.

Everything was set. His appointed delegates were finalizing the arrangements. He just needed Mother Constance found within the week, and that was starting to prey on him. So, he had turned to his studies as a distraction while he waited for his network to find her. Jeremiah wasn't much help in deciding what to read but the man's books at the hotel were still in order. From them, Michael selected something he hadn't looked at before.

Hiding in a book was something he had done many times while growing up. He understood the texts were history books, but they were also an escape for him. A jaunt into a mystical, mythical place of dreams and nightmares. This one, the _Book of Giants_ , was an old Talmudic translation written on thin leather pages. The book itself was strange to hold: Being made of leather, it warmed as he held it. The pages became more pliable with heat and soon felt like he was holding a living thing. The illustrations in it looked more like tattoos than drawings.

The contents of the book were surprising to Michael. While he found several references he was acquainted with that tied in with what Father Jeremiah had drilled into him from a young age, there was a lot of information that he had never heard before. He learned things from the book that tied other stories he knew together in intricate and disturbing ways—in ways he felt affected him personally.

The book claimed that the children of the "Watchers" were angels sent to monitor and slowly deliver new knowledge to man. But there were many who found the human race attractive and they seduced and impregnated human woman. Their offspring were "Giants", gods among men who took extreme and violent advantage of their gifted status. The book gave lengthy and graphic descriptions of what the children of the fallen angels did to the human race. It said that the Giants enslaved, prostituted, and slaughtered mankind, which they considered a lesser race. It told of how a secret council of 200 Watchers and their children was formed, some of whom had prophetic dreams of the end of times brought about by their own wicked ways.

Michael was propped on the hotel bar, just over halfway through the unsettling book when one of the dual front doors opened, sending a dagger of light through the dark lobby. Michael blinked a few times but otherwise didn't move. He could sense the individual who came in. They weren't alive. He recognized her energy signature though he didn't know her name.

"You're from the Montgomery Mansion," he said. He put a cocktail napkin in the book to mark his place and then carefully closed the cover.

"My name is Lorraine Harvey," the woman said. "And I think there's something you should know."

Michael turned on the bar stool and brushed his hair back from his face. He hadn't bothered with a ponytail; his hair was long enough now that he could push it back over his shoulders if he didn't want to be bothered by it. He looked at the ghost woman and arched a brow, silently inviting her to continue.

His mannerisms threw her off and she wrung her hands, starting to lose her nerve. "It's Constance. She's back."

Both of his brows went up and he slid off the stool. "She's at the mansion?"

Lorraine took a step back. She considered herself a good Christian woman and she was already uneasy being this close to the son of Satan. When she had decided to make the trip, she thought she was tipping the scales. She thought the Antichrist would come for Constance, finally ridding the house of her and settling the personal injustice Lorraine had felt since discovering her husband was having an affair with the Langdon woman.

"She is. But...she's—she's not alive," Mrs. Harvey stammered.

"What?" Michael crossed the floor with long strides, sharp-toed leather boots registering no sound as he moved.

"She killed herself," Lorraine gushed, taking several hasty steps back. His sudden anger terrified her, and she regretted coming to the hotel. She had never been good with games of intrigue. "But her ghost. Her ghost is back. The doctor in the basement cut her up!"

Michael caught up to the ghost woman and reached for her. His misplaced fury coursed directly through him with the motion and into the frightened woman, setting her ablaze. She was gone before he could calm down enough to stop himself.

"Fuck!" he swore. He shoved a nearby planter over in frustration at his loss of control. Dirt spread across the floor in a dark trail. "FUCK!"

Michael stalked toward the exit, tense with rage. The double doors splintered outward before he reached them. The frailty of the physical world bothered him. He knew couldn't drive the new car in his condition and had no patience for walking the whole way to the mansion. He had a gut full of anger he wanted to unload immediately. So, he did what the spirits did: He took a step forward and came out in the front foyer of Murder House. It made him a little queasy when the world solidified again but he ignored it.

"Mother Constance!" he bellowed into the depths of the house. His voice reverberated, shaking the chandelier.

"I'm right here," she said off to his left, from the kitchen. "There's no need to shout."

He turned on her, clamping down on the fire he felt welling up again. As mad as he was, he didn't want to incinerate her like he had the Harvey woman. "You're not allowed to kill yourself!"

She could feel the heat radiating from her grandson; the infernal power actually lit up his eyes, an eerie effect she had to force herself to ignore. "I already did, sweetheart. But you don't need me for your ritual—"

"Yes, I do!" he exploded, and the chandelier shattered just as the hotel the doors had. It dusted his hair and black velvet coat with glittering crystal shards.

Constance flinched at the damage. "No, you don't," she insisted, calm despite the fact that she was talking to a living time bomb. She had to be; their future depended on her talking sense into him. "I've already done my part. Evangelina is carryin' your child. She's the one He wants."

It was like a bucket of ice water to his flames. Michael frowned at her, confused. "Wh—She..." He wrinkled his nose. "My child?"

Constance smiled and reached to put a hand on his cheek. The imminent crisis was averted.

"I saw Jeremiah when I died," she told him in a hushed tone. He drew closer to her and she cupped his other cheek as well, her gaze intense. "He's in the underworld, Michael. In a place called Dis. He took me to see the Dragon."

She released him and tipped her head so she could sweep her hair back from her forehead. There, just at her hairline above the temple was the same mark he'd been born with: A raised mark in the shape of the numbers '666'. It was the mark of the Beast.

Michael brows knit in confusion, but he knew that she was telling him the truth. He had a host of questions but decided most of them could wait. "Are you still coming to my birthday party?"

His question was so inherently innocent, so childlike in its simplicity after such a storm, she couldn't help a laugh even as tears burned her eyes.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter was necessarily long. It just didn't divide neater than this.

So, Constance got to meet Michael's real daddy. I didn't include it here but may post it as a stand-alone later, possibly along with spirit-Jeremiah's experiences from when he first landed in the underworld.

Michael's birthday is next. It may take a bit longer than usual to post. I'm dealing with some RL business transfer stuff. Once things have smoothed out and I can edit my stuff, I'll post the next chapter. Hopefully this one will tide you over till then. Shouldn't be more than a couple of weeks tops.


	41. E6 Chapter 3 - Party Invitations

_(_ Silent Hill 2 Promise - Gingertail cover _is recommended for the first portion of this chapter.)_

Despite not having a physical stomach, Tate felt sick watching the exchange. Genuinely sick to the point of nausea, he retreated deeper into the house, to the upstairs bathroom. He shut and locked the door then went over to the toilet and put the seat up. Hugging his middle, he hunched over the clean white porcelain bowl for several seconds, expecting to puke at any moment.

The oily, gross feeling crawled around his stomach before burrowing into his guts where the feeling subsided to a dull ache. He no longer felt like he was going to barf but it felt like a giant slug had taken up residence in his intestines. To comfort himself he went to the master bedroom and rooted around through the closet until he found one of his dad's favorite sweaters. Gathering the brown polyester in both hands, he pressed his face into the garment.

But the comforting smell of his dad was gone. Whatever lingering scent it held after Hugo left his family had finally faded away. There was only the smell of dust and age now. He sniffed harder, wanting desperately to catch just a hint of that remembered sense but it just wasn't there. The sick feeling came back again, gnawing and raw and studded with pain that made his eyes burn.

His dad was gone. He wasn't coming back. Not ever. Addie went away too, just like Hugo. She wasn't going to come back either. Michael had made it sound like Constance left too but now they were both downstairs, fighting and making up and being weird at each other. Tate pounded on his head with the heels of his fists as he grappled with the mangled up situation, trying to make sense of everything and how he felt about it.

"What are you doing?"

Michael's voice came from the doorway, lancing through Tate's frantic despair. He knew he locked the door when he entered the bedroom, but it was wide open now. Michael stood there in his expensive suit and velvet coat, his long hair swept back in a way Tate wasn't used to. He looked like a someone Stoker or Byron would adore.

Tate sniffled and rubbed his nose. "What're _you_ doing?" he challenged since he didn't want to explain himself.

Michael pursed his lips briefly then his expression went neutral. He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "My birthday party is this coming weekend. I wanted to know if you'd come."

Tate pulled his attention up off Michael's pointy-toed boots and wrinkled his nose. "Seriously?"

Michael arched his brows just a little. "Don't I sound serious?"

Tate fidgeted. "Why do you want me there?"

"Why not?" Michael smiled. He had a dimple in his cheek just like Tate did. "It's an important occasion and you're my family. Whether you like it or not."

Even though Michael was still smiling, his choice of wording bothered Tate. Made him leery. "You're not going to sacrifice me or something, are you?"

Michael laughed. "No. You'd need a body for that." He tipped his head and his gaze went suddenly critical. "Do you want a body?"

Tate eyed him, skeptical of the offer and the other guy's sanity now. "Why? So you could sacrifice it?"

Michael laughed again, sounding genuinely amused by Tate's paranoia. He stepped into the bedroom, moving closer to the ghost teen. "You're so obsessed with the sacrificing."

"Have you been downtown lately?"

That earned him a nod of concession from Michael. "Valid. But I wouldn't restore your life just to take it again. I have plenty of sacrificial lambs if I want to end a life. Do you want to live again, Tate? I can make that happen."

Tate's nose wrinkled as the prospect dwarfed him. Though he'd seen the priest and Constance brought back, he had never considered his own return. Not seriously. Thinking about it now the idea terrified him and he didn't know why. Michael's hand on his shoulder brought him out of his panicked thoughts.

"No!" Tate exclaimed. Then, more restrained: "No. I'm good. I'd miss Violet."

Michael snorted but didn't try to punch holes in the flimsy argument. "Suit yourself. It won't matter in the long run anyway. But I do want you at my party. You'll come. Won't you?"

Tate's mouth twitched. Michael was still talking weird and his invitation sounded more like a veiled demand. Tate toyed with the idea of refusing but what he said was: "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

Michael smiled brightly, pleased with the response. "Good. Wear something nice."

He gave the teen's shoulder a squeeze then left. Tate stared after him for several seconds before ducking off to his hiding spot in the basement. The exchange left him feeling oddly like he'd just bickered with his mother about school picture day. He rubbed his gritty eyes and tried to remind himself that Michael was technically his offspring. His son.

It didn't work.

Michael was too old to think of as a child or even a peer. He was a grown-up and acted like one so effortlessly, it was difficult for Tate to remember when dealing with him that Michael had been a little boy once. He had played with cars and trick-or-treated with Tate on Halloween. Back then he was a best friend of sorts. Now he was more like a bossy uncle. Michael wasn't as bad as Chad, but Tate suspected he had the potential to be. That bothered him on several levels. He didn't need two Chads telling him how to dress and what parties to attend. One was bad enough.

Tate paced and chewed his thumbnail. He couldn't stop Michael being an adult, but he had to figure out a way to stop him from becoming a royal pain in the ass.

…

Troy leaned against the door of the rickety van, brown eyes on the foggy world that passed by outside. He was crowded into the vehicle with far too many other people, all pilgrims traveling to New Jerusalem. It smelled of dirt and unwashed bodies in the tight quarters. The view didn't offer much but it was a small escape from the cramped space and it reminded him how close they were to their destination. His was the last vehicle in a caravan of six, all coming down to California from up north. Many of the people in the van were parishioners sent by the New World United Church, a blended religious union between the surviving God-fearing supporters of Christ.

Troy was among those representatives. The dark haired 21-year-old was handsome and charming, healthy and strong. A perfect ambassador for the cause. He had been a ward of the church since he was a child. The elders trusted he would help undermine the Antichrist and destroy the false church his wicked followers had erected in the place called New Jerusalem.

The young man was anxious to go. For years he had strange dreams that he knew were significant but made no sense until the end of the world. The visions of sea serpents and oxen were a mystery, but the portion about the dragon finally made sense to him. And he felt confident that if he could get close to Michael he would be able to figure out what the ox and the sea serpent were.

The van when passed through the settlement checkpoint and came to a stop near the center of town. Troy was one of the first out of the vehicle. He shouldered his duffel bag and slipped away from the group before his travel buddy, Wyatt, got a chance to latch onto him. Troy didn't want to be anchored down. He had too much to do on his personal agenda.

He took only one look back at the church group before he ducked around the corner, out of sight.

—

Troy wasn't exactly sure where to start looking for the Antichrist, apart from the church, and he was certain his group would head there first. Instead of going to the church, the stray missionary went to a bar across the square. He thought he might ask someone who worked there if they knew where the local god spent his time, but he found something even better. Just inside the main door was a pin board bearing a host of flyers. Several of them were notices of the upcoming birthday bash for Michael Langdon that was being held at the Ford Theatre.

Smiling to himself, Troy pulled one of the flyers off the wall for a better look at the details: The time it would start, a few important names that would be attending. There was information on how to volunteer and information on how to enter a lottery to be chosen as a blood sacrifice at the event. The fine print at the bottom warned there would be blood-shed, death, and sexual acts. It cautioned that anyone attending who complained about anything would be executed on the spot.

The door behind him opened, encouraging the young man to move further into the cramped place. The left wall was the bar, backed by rows of various colored liquor bottles. Christmas lights provided the place's primary light source. A burly man with a ruddy face and a dirty apron was tending bar. Troy folded the flyer up and stuffed it into his back pocket.

"Getcha something?" the bartender asked when Troy settled on a stool.

"What's good?"

"The honey mead," said the bartender. "Moonshine if you're looking for something stronger."

"Moonshine, huh?" asked Troy with a quirky smile. "Like, from the prohibition era?"

"It's distilled from paint thinner," said the woman next to Troy.

She didn't raise her voice but he could hear her clearly despite the chatter in the bar. He had noticed her peripherally when he sat down, but her hooded cloak hid her features, making her somewhat invisible to him until she spoke.

"And wine's rotten dandelions these days," the bartender sniped. "Beggars can't be choosers."

"I'll have a mead," Troy interjected.

The stout bartender went to work, pouring out a chipped glass of amber fluid for Troy before moving down the bar to tend to other customers.

"The mead's a good choice," the woman said. "But I know a place where you can get a real drink."

Troy sipped his mead and was surprised at how sweet and fizzy it was. Like thick soda, with an alcohol kick. "Oh? Where's that, pray tell?"

"The Bradford Hotel," the woman said. "You know where it is?"

He shook his head. "Just got into town. I'm here for the, uh, the birthday thing. I'm Troy," he said, sticking his hand out to her.

"Evangelina," she smiled. She extended a hand to meet his, brushing her fingertips against his palm rather than shaking hands.

"Pleased to meet you," he said. Then: "If the Bradford's so great, why come here?"

"It's the only place in town that brews actual coffee," she shrugged. "Everywhere else is still relying on pre-apocalypse freeze-dried shit. Maxwell House and the like."

Troy made a face. "That's disappointing."

"Tell me about it," she agreed. She slid off her bar stool then. "Troy, it was a pleasure. I hope I'll see you again sometime."

He stopped mid-sip and set his drink down, surprised. "Oh. You're leaving?" He thought that might sound too desperate, so he tried to reel it in with a charming smile. "Well. It was nice to make your acquaintance. Are you going to be at the, um, the birthday celebration?"

She smiled coyly. "I expect I will be. Maybe we'll cross paths."

She turned and moved through the narrow bar to the exit. Troy watched her go, admiring the way she seemed to glide across the floor despite the crowd. Then he swigged a big drink from his glass. Without Evangelina there to impress, he gave a healthy belch and considered his next steps.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

When I wrote the roles, I envisioned Lady Gaga as Evangelina and Finn Witrock as Troy. They're both equal parts character and plot device so, since they were necessary, I tailored them to folks I love from other seasons of AHS.

Also, when I started the **Murder House Revisited** fic six years ago, I didn't put much thought into what it would be like for Tate to see Michael grow up and even grow older than him. Speaking for him, it's weird to see your kid reach developmental milestones you'll never get to.

Six years has been a crazy ride. I actually got Disney/Fox to consider my stuff for a graphic novel. Unfortunately, the merger meant that couldn't happen (along with a ton of other comic book-ish stuff Fox was planning) but it was neat getting to talk to them about it. I'm thinking about releasing the manuscript on Fanfic since it's complete and all. It just isn't official or in graphic novel format.

Next time: It's a birthday party! And what a party...


	42. E6 Chapter 4 - Black Celebration

( _This chapter has some repetitive tune-age. I listened to at least five versions of Depeche Mode's_ Black Celebration _while writing this. I'll only cue you to three, for sanity's sake.)_

* * *

 _(Black Celebration - Bicircular cover_ )

When Evangelina got back to the Bradford, she was surprised to find the common area empty except for Michael, who sat alone at the bar. He had his back to the long ebony surface and looked quite comfortable in his sprawl, at a glance. Even at a distance she could feel the weight of his attention from the moment she walked into the dimly-lit lobby.

"Evangelina," he said. "Please come here."

Despite his genial tone, the woman felt ill at ease. Strange, since she hadn't done anything she could think of that might upset him. She crossed the lobby and tugged her cloak off, though what she wanted to do was draw it closer to herself. She laid it over the back of a wingback chair as she passed. She was left in a lightweight sleeveless dress of black chiffon, but the room was warm enough that it didn't matter.

Michael waited until she was almost within arm's reach before getting to his feet. He stepped right into her personal space, which forced her to look up at him because he had a few inches on her. He smiled down at her, noting her uncertainty and enjoying the control it gave him to keep her on edge. He wanted to ravish her right there on the bar, but he stuffed the carnal urge down.

"My dear Evangelina," he said, tracing her jaw lightly with a finger before hooking it under her chin. "You're going to be a mother."

The information percolated visibly in her fine-boned features and she searched his face for his feelings on the matter. He smiled, appreciating her instincts.

"I located Mother Constance. The Dragon told her, and she told me," Michael supplied, though she hadn't asked.

He gathered the pale woman up under an arm and placed his palm over her flat tummy. The baby was still too small to feel with his hand, but he could sense the tiny seed of life stirring there. Life that he made without having to hurt someone first.

"We don't need her for the ritual," he went on, but he was distracted.

He had been on board with the idea of turning Evangelina over to the Dragon but being near the tiny energy signature that he'd help create made him not want to share it. Not with anyone, even the Dragon.

"What do you mean?" Evangelina asked, not following him.

He blinked and smiled at her again, focus restored. "Never mind. Let's celebrate. Are you hungry?"

…

( _Black Celebration - Nitronoise cover, followed by Leæther Strip's cover_ )

Ford Theatre was lit up as bright as day on the night of Michael's birthday. Large fans pushed back the fog so even the cheap seats could see what was going on in the center of the venue. The Greek-style open stage was appointed with a large wooden base set with two tall poles. The contraption was painted black; a pair of iron chains dangled from posts set high in the poles, terminating in sturdy manacles.

The platform was surrounded by a circle of nine fat tallow candles and, further out, a ring of five flaming steel mesh barrels. Red and black roses littered the floor. Loud music blared through the theater's speaker system, bringing back to life a time almost forgotten. Vendors worked the crowd, selling trinkets, noise makers, beer and food. The crowd was electric, almost as loud as the music. They weren't there for the dark tunes or the opening acts like the sword dancer who was currently traipsing about the stage. The audience knew the best was yet to come.

The beat from the huge speakers was strong enough to be felt even in the green room beneath the arena seating. Evangelina's pulse moved in time to the rhythm that she felt more than heard. People bustled around her, but she felt disconnected from it all, hazy and slow, like she'd been drugged. It was a feeling that had crept over her when she entered the theatre with Michael, an hour before. Several women tended to her, helping to get her into a simple but pretty dress made of ivory lace and satin, adorned with tiny polished conch shells and mother of pearl accents. Her long, platinum-blonde hair was braided and pinned, studded with white and black pearls.

Evangelina was in no state to appreciate her appearance. Time seemed to smear by and soon she found herself being hustled out to the center stage by two muscular men dressed in white turtleneck sweaters and white pants stuffed into white combat boots. The crowd roared in response to their appearance. Brilliant red and gold fireworks went off, momentarily blinding her.

She felt queasy and tried to stop but the men grabbed her arms and lifted her up in between the tall posts. Before she could process what was happening, they had clapped the manacles around her wrists, chaining her to the poles. As soon as she was secured, the men left. Neither looked her in the eye.

"Wait!" she called after them, but her voice was lost to the cacophonic din.

The woman tried to pull her hands free, but the manacles were too tight. A glance up let her know she wouldn't be able to loosen the chains from the posts; the chains were held in place by screwed-in O-rings. She didn't understand what was happening. When Michael had asked her to escort him to the party, she had assumed they would be together the whole time but when she arrived at the arena, she had been immediately whisked away to the green room. She had no idea where he was now.

"Michael!" she screamed but her voice was lost, even to her own ears. The crowd and music were too loud.

The lights were too bright for her to see much beyond the stage. Everywhere she looked, white light stunned her. She could smell smoke and burnt gunpowder. The music reached a crescendo then silenced, and the stage lights shifted to red. Evangelina could make out the audience, but they had been cast into darkness so were just shadowy silhouettes beyond the red glow.

Over the speakers, a voice she recognized as Fiona's began to drone an ancient incantation: A spell of summoning. On stage, another white-clad man led a black-and-white Billy goat up, right before Evangelina. He didn't even look at her but pulled a long hunting knife from the sheath on his hip and slit the goat's throat. Blood splashed the stage and Evangelina's white dress, red roses on the white lace. The man exited the stage as quickly as he could without running, leaving the goat's body on the stage to bleed out.

The air heated up rapidly, a change Evangelina noted peripherally because the cold December air had been biting right through the thin dress. Now, she was getting too hot. Smoke billowed over the stage though there weren't any fireworks going off. The smog smelled worse than gunpowder. It was acrid; downright sulfuric. There was a lull when Fiona finished the spell. The air pressure increased drastically; even the dullest wit in the assemblage could tell something was happening and all were dead silent.

Then, with a loud crack like a hundred trees being felled at once, the earth split open right in front of the center stage.

Thick smoke boiled up out of the widening fissure, prompting screams and cheers from the crowd. The ground beneath Evangelina shook violently. She would have fallen if it weren't for the chains that held her. She staggered about, trying to regain her footing. Having her full weight pulling on her arm joints hurt.

A dark shape emerged from the huge fissure, a shadow in the smoke at first, then it spread its wings. Rising up to tower above the chained lady, as the smoke cleared the form resolved into that of a giant dragon. When it hauled itself up out of the gap, the creature dwarfed the arena. Black as night and rippling with powerful muscles, the Beast surveyed the crowd and gave a mighty roar like thunder.

A great cheer went up from the crowd at the potent display. The Beast basked in its diabolical glory, stretching and showing off its wings and lashing its tail impressively. When it tired of the preening, the Dragon turned its attention to the bound woman, swiveling its prehensile neck so it could look at her on her level without lowering itself.

Evangelina trembled under its direct scrutiny, terrified. She could feel the immense power of the Beast along with the heat it radiated. It put its nose right up against her middle and inhaled. The intake of breath was strong enough to tug at the lightweight dress. Then the gigantic creature threw its head back and belched a gout of white flame up into the sky, brighter than the earlier fireworks. The light show ended in a screech of a roar that shook the arena and caused many to cover their ears.

The Dragon spread its wings and was airborne, battering the theatre with a gust of dusty wind. As it took off, it swiped one great claw at Evangelina and snatched her up, snapping the chains like threads without harming her. It gave another triumphant roar and climbed higher into the dark sky, so fast it was quickly lost among the clouds and thinning smoke.

The spectacle was met with stunned silence then the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers that shook the arena almost as much as the Beast's roar did.

—

In the staging area, Michael was in full panic. He had seen the whole thing from the communications room, and it wasn't at all what he expected. Tearing himself away from the generator-powered monitor—the event's only camera broadcast—the young man cast about for someone to blame. He saw Pieter and targeted him, anxiety and anger growing.

"It took her! The Dragon took her!" he yelled. He grabbed two fists full of Pieter's black silk shirt and got up in the warlock's face. "It wasn't supposed to _take_ her!"

Pieter tolerated the manhandling with his typical unflappable patience. "What did you expect? She was His sacrifice."

" _Ritual_ sacrifice!" Michael stressed. "Ritual! An act! A dem-on-stra-tion!" He emphasized, injecting each syllable of the word each with his ire. "He wasn't supposed to _take_ her!"

"Perhaps you should discuss that with Him?"

Michael glared at the blond man, but he knew Pieter had no more control over the situation than anyone else at the moment, even himself. No one could control the Dragon. That inherent understanding sapped Michael's fury, which he also didn't want. He felt better when he was raging because then, he couldn't feel anything else. But it was gone now. Logic killed it.

Disgusted with the Pieter's sense and irritated with his own helplessness, Michael released the man with an impertinent shove. Pieter smoothed the creases from his shirt and straightened his ponytail.

Michael started to pace. "I want her back," he demanded of no one. He couldn't help thinking about the baby and what might happen to it. "The prophecy. What—The pregnancy. What's the significance? What's supposed to happen to the baby?"

"It depends on which version of the prophecy you refer to," Pieter smiled benignly. "Some Christians believe that the Beast will be waiting to devour the infant when she gives birth. Some believe the baby will be the ruler of nations."

Michael didn't like either of those ideas. He stopped pacing and looked at Pieter. "What do you believe?"

Pieter's brows went up. "Me?" He smiled. "I believe the future is what you decide it will be. That is why it's so important to control what you do and think."

"Thanks for the moral lesson," Michael said bitterly, not at all thankful. "How the hell do we get Evangelina back?"

Pieter spread his hands. "He will bring her back if He wishes to."

"The coven just summoned Him!" Michael protested.

"What we did was like…knocking on someone's door," said Pieter. "We didn't force the Dragon to come here. Surely you know that."

Michael was beginning to tire of the conversation, mostly because the warlock was being persistently and annoyingly right. "Fuck!" the younger man swore, finally reaching a dead end with his whirlwind thoughts. He ran his hands through his hair and tried to clamp down on the anxiety gnawing at his guts. He had made mistakes before, but he knew this one was the worst one ever.

"Come," Pieter invited, slipping an arm around Michael's shoulders. "Let's go get your mind off of things. The VIP orgy is starting soon."

"I don't want to!" Michael snarled, temper flaring again. He shoved Pieter's arm away and headed for the door. "I'm leaving!"

Pieter watched him go. "But it's _your_ birthday party…"

It was no use. Michael was gone.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

I'll admit, I played Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain when the Dragon came up out of the ground. I didn't cue it in the chapter because I didn't want to interrupt the flow or seem to cheesy but it definitely helped drive the mood while I was writing it. Also embedded in this chapter and the last one are several references to horror songs. Too many to list. Play seek-and-find if you re-read them. See how many you can spot.

And, of course, there's the huge glaring King Kong homage. You had to know I was gonna work one of those in somewhere. The dress Evangelina wears is, in my mind, reminiscent of the one Jessica Lange wore in the 1976 film. She was so sexy in that dress, especially in the waterfall scene. Rowr!

Anyway, where was I? Right. Next time: Tate can't get anybody to validate his hurt feelings. Meanwhile, Troy gets to meet Michael...but under strange circumstances.


	43. E6 Chapter 5 - Cinderella Men

"He left!" Tate said to Constance, offended that Michael took his leave without even bothering to acknowledge the fact that Tate not only showed up but wore the dumb suit that Chad had picked out for him. "I'm not staying if he's not."

Constance rolled her eyes and sucked on her cigarette. "It's his twentieth birthday, Tate," she said, exhaling smoke in a sigh. "You can't give him the gift of your presence for an hour or two?"

She was dressed to the nines in a floor-length caftan awash in a swirl of reds, burgundy, and blacks, reminiscent of the rose garden in her back yard. She had her hair done up in a way that made Tate think of when she used to host dinner parties at the house.

There was one particularly memorable party when he was six. Constance had filled a big Igloo cooler with what looked like red punch and put it in the foyer next to a table of snacks and other drinks. It had chunks of fruit floating in it. There was also a green bowl of fizzy drink with marshmallows in it. Tate had sampled some of that earlier, before bedtime, but Mama wouldn't let him have any of the red stuff.

The little boy liked red Kool-aid and red Hawaiian punch so he didn't understand why she wouldn't let him have the red fruit punch. That night after he was supposed to be in bed he got up and asked her for a drink. While she was busy trying to find a clean cup in the kitchen, he sneaked a mouthful of red drink from the plastic ladle in the Igloo cooler. He swallowed automatically then realized how bad the stuff tasted. It was like grapefruit only it burned more. Mama came out of the kitchen with a sippy cup of water and Tate gulped it eagerly as she pushed him toward the stairs. After that, he never wanted any of the punch drinks people served at parties.

"Michael's not even _here_ ," Tate pointed out the obvious again. Then he switched tactics. "Fine. I'll stay. I always wanted to see what an orgy was like."

Constance fixed him with a steely glare. "You're not goin' to any orgy."

Now Tate was truly affronted. "I have to stay for this bullshit, but I can't go to the orgy? Michael gets to!"

His mother bristled. "Don't you take that tone with me! You're not goin' and that's final." Her tone was iron.

Tate glared at her as hard as he could with tears blurring his vision. She met him gaze for gaze, her own cool and lofty. His chin trembled then his composure cracked.

"It's not fair!" he asserted. "You always let him do whatever the fuck he wants, and I never get to do anything!"

"Fine!" she snapped. She didn't want to deal with his attitude on top of Michael's nuclear mood. "Go on home, then. I'm sure that queer will have somethin' for you to do when you return that suit to him."

That sounded suspiciously like he was being sent home to do chores, to Tate. Which is not what he wanted to do. He was reluctant to ask for clarification though. In the mood she was in, Constance would make it that even if it wasn't what she was thinking.

"Well?" she prompted as she exhaled more smoke. "Why're you still standin' there? Go home."

The direct statement translated into an instant impulse, an urge to return to the mansion that was as strong as anything the house itself had inflicted on him. When his room resolved around him, he felt a surge of anger. His mother had just banished him. He hadn't left the party; she sent him home. It was like being told to 'go away' only instead of disappearing from her ghost-world, she displaced him in the material world.

He frowned and left the bedroom, partly to establish that he could. Then he got mad at Constance again; mad at her for trying to guilt him into staying at the stupid party, mad at her for not letting him go to the stupid orgy, mad at her for sending him home without his consent. He was also mad at her for giving him what he wanted in a way that made him not want it.

Confused by his own illogical feelings, Tate shed the nice suit as he went, leaving the coat and pants and starchy shirt in a trail as he headed away from the bedroom. The fancy shoes went with the pants. In his underwear, socks, and a white t-shirt, he padded silently down the hall. When he got to the back stairs he sat down on the top step and propped his chin with his hands.

It only took about two minutes before Chad was behind him with the shed clothes in his hands.

"Are you kidding me?" the dark-haired man lambasted. "This is a fifteen hundred dollar suit! And you just _drop_ it on the _floor_?!"

"Money doesn't mean shit anymore," Tate dismissed without lifting his head. "Especially not to us."

"It still buys food at the market," defended Chad. "We may be dead, but the almighty dollar isn't. And that's not the point, anyway." He dusted the pants off and folded them over an arm. "These are nice clothes. I didn't get them for you so you could use them as runner rugs."

"I never asked you to get them," said Tate. There was no spirit in the debate though. His tone was as flat as his expression. "Didn't want to go to that stupid party anyways."

Once the shirt was folded, Chad felt much better and could focus on other things, like Tate's demeanor. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Well, except that dragon coming out and taking the priest's ex-wife."

Chad rolled his eyes and lowered himself to sit next to the teen on the top step. "Nothing but that minor detail."

The sarcasm rolled right off Tate. "Michael bailed after that. Then—" He wrinkled his nose, suddenly not sure he wanted to share the next detail.

"Then?" prompted Chad.

Tate glanced at him sidelong then shrugged. "Constance told me to go home."

"You actually did what she told you to do?"

"Yeah, I guess," the blond boy said grudgingly. "It was all just some stupid thing to pad Michael's ginormous ego so...yeah. I blew it off after he left."

That answer didn't make a lot of sense to Chad, but he really didn't care about the details of the event. If he had, he would have attended. "That doesn't explain why you decided to strip down in the hall."

Tate shot him an dark look. "I was sick of wearing the suit."

"So, you hang it up," Chad said, in a tone one would use on a toddler. "Is that so hard?"

Tate was tempted to tell him to fuck off but he wasn't in the mood to start a real fight. So, he toned it down a notch. "No, but my dick is. Want to suck it?"

The comment earned him an exasperated sigh.

"Maybe you should go talk to Doctor Harmon." The way he phrased it made it sound like a threat.

The idea wasn't a bad one but since Chad suggested it Tate was inclined to do the opposite. "Maybe," he shrugged.

"..or sit there like a lump in your underwear," said Chad, losing his last shred of patience. He left then.

For a few moments Tate felt better. Then he remembered why he was unhappy in the first place and dropped right back down into a broody funk. He thought about going to find Violet, but he didn't really want to talk to anyone, not even her. He didn't understand what he was feeling or why and because of that he didn't want to do anything in front of anybody that he might have to explain or apologize for later.

…

( _Everybody Wants to Rule the World – Lorde_ )

Michael's leaving was so sudden and unexpected that Troy almost missed it. He had been loitering near the staging room, hoping to insinuate himself into the Antichrist's entourage when they left the arena. When the other guy brushed past him, Troy did a double-take and tossed his flat beer aside to give chase. He followed Michael out to the weed-choked parking lot where several vehicles were parked. Afraid of losing him, Troy called out to him.

"Michael!"

Hearing his name, the young man in black paused and flicked a glance over a shoulder at Troy. "Go away."

"I need to talk to you," the missionary insisted.

Michael turned toward him, chin held arrogantly high. "So. Talk."

Troy came right up to him and stuck out a hand. "I'm Troy. The New World United Church sends its regards."

Michael hesitated, then took the offered hand. When their hands clasped, however, there was a strange shift that made Michael dizzy for a moment. It was a feeling of opening or unlocking, a type of energy flow that was instant and invigorating, like having a battery pack. For Troy, it was the same: He felt a strange sense of opening and a sudden rush of something he couldn't define even as he was feeling it.

The intense sensation grew stronger and stronger until Troy thought he might burst. With effort he ripped his hand from Michael's, stumbling with the force it took to separate himself. The sensation went into back flow and he felt moving up through him like heartburn over his whole body. It centered in his heart then shot out through his arms in the form of twin pillars of flame. The fire scorched the pavement, hot enough to cause the tar to boil.

"Holy shit!" Troy shouted and shook his arms in an attempt to put out the fire.

The action flung blobs of flame all around like napalm. Where the fire landed, the pavement blackened. Michael dodged one fiery missile and stared. He felt juiced up from the contact, but it wasn't like what Troy was going through. The young man wasn't in pain, though; he wasn't burning. When he finally got the flames under control, his hands were whole and undamaged. His clothes were singed but he was unharmed.

Troy stared at his hands. He could still feel the fire inside him, but he had clamped down on it, holding it in like a big burp. "Holy shit," he repeated in an awed murmur when he could speak.

Michael found his amazement amusing. "UNholy shit," he corrected with a crooked smile.

Remembering where he was, Troy looked at him with a dazed smile of his own. "What did you do to me?"

Michael shook his head. "I didn't do anything." He swept his hair back from his face with a hand and gave Troy closer scrutiny, right down to his soul, which was markedly different from normal people. "Whatever it was, that was all you. You're…different."

Troy flexed his fingers, looking at them. There was no evidence of the fire left on him but there was plenty on the pavement. "I always knew I was, but I didn't think I was _that_ different." He looked at Michael again. "What am I?"

"Hell if I know," Michael admitted. "I've never met anybody like you. Maybe you should tell me more about yourself…and this church you're representing."

—

* * *

Author's Note:

Weird fact: In addition to a tongue-in-cheek reference to Michael and Troy's leaving the party, this chapter's title was inspired by " _Cinderella Man_ ", a Ron Howard film that led to my meeting Max Baer Jr., who played Jethro Clampett on the _Beverly Hillbillies._ He's also the son of Max Baer, who was a famous boxer. Mr Howard needed a bad guy to give his film a little more punch (ha!), so he randomly picked Max Baer and assigned him villainous actions that Baer never did. Jethro took great exception to this, but the film was already in theaters; nothing could be done. When I found out about it, I reached out to Jethro's camp and was surprised when I got a personal response. I later helped support his attempt to open a casino in Nevada but WalMart sniped the land he was bidding on. And that's a true American horror story, if you ask me.

Next time: Troy gets to know Michael's camp better. Did someone say orgy?


	44. E6 Chapter 6 - Initiation

"…so, after things went to shit, what was left of the Judeo-Christian sects decided to put aside their differences and make a unified religion of God," Troy said, wrapping up his description of the New World United Church.

Michael had led him to the Bradford Hotel and the bar in the lounge. True to what Evangelina had told Troy when they met, the liquor at the bar was genuine and good. Far stronger than anything Troy had in the past.

"So, what is it your group wants?" asked Michael. He lit a black cigarette that smelled of cloves.

Troy thought about that. He fiddled with his glass of bourbon, eyes on the amber fluid. "The missionaries are here to try and convert your flock."

Michael cocked his head and studied the dark-haired fellow next to him. Troy was roughly his same age, dark haired and dressed in a faded flannel shirt, an old coat, and well-worn jeans. Good-looking in a James Dean way that old Hollywood would have appreciated.

"What about you?" Michael prompted.

Troy looked up from his glass, lost. "What about me what?"

"What are you here for?"

Troy hesitated. Then: "Since I was small, I've had these…visions. Dreams. Dreams of dragons, and beasts of the sea and land. About a month ago…" He laughed, suddenly afraid of the first impression he was crafting. "Never mind."

He started to lift his glass, but Michael intercepted him by putting a hand on his arm. The blond guy arched his brows for a probing look.

"Tell me." Michael's words were simple, soft, and supremely compelling.

"I had a dream that the dragon emerged on the beach and there was a great serpent in the sea to one side of it and to the other side, there was a great beast like an ox with ram's horns. And I was telling this, uh, this tour group that the dragon's name was Michael and they should all follow him. You."

Michael let go of his arm then and settled back to smoke his cigarette. It pleased him that Troy's dream proclaimed him the dragon he knew he was. The other creatures made him wonder though. In the Biblical texts he'd read at Father Jeremiah's behest, those same beings were something of an entourage to the dragon.

"You're the False Prophet," Michael said

Troy swallowed the swig of liquor in his mouth and coughed on the fumes. "Excuse me?"

Michael swept him with another scrutinizing stare and nodded to himself, certain of his assessment. "You're the False Prophet. The third part of the Unholy Trinity."

"Me?" Troy said, not believing it. He knew his Bible verses. "I'm just a missionary who's ditched the path of righteousness to get drunk in a bar with the Antichrist." He laughed at himself because it was true: He was drunk.

"True," agreed Michael. "But you're the False Prophet too." He paused, watching the swirling signature of the other man's soul. It reminded him of a Rubik's cube in its complexity. He smiled broadly. "And I think I know how you're going to help me."

—

The orgy was in full swing when Michael and Troy arrived at the bunker up in the Hollywood Hills. Officially part of New 'Salem now, the central bunker where the elite used to shut themselves away was crawling with people in various states of dress and intoxication. Most wore masquerade masks to shelter their identities while they explored every kind of carnal delight.

The main room of the bunker was wide, strewn with couches and cushions, studded with low tables overflowing with rich foods rarely seen by the common people in the post-apocalyptic world. The room was lit with fire barrels and thick candles; the light was dispersed by several small, strategically placed mirror balls dangling from the ceiling. Black velvet drapes covered the walls, embroidered with blood red angelic script.

Loud music with a heavy bass beat vibrated the air. Troy could feel the sound waves tingling in his fingers and nose and thumping around inside his lungs. The smell of sex, marijuana, opium, and incense made him dizzy. The air was electrified and cool at once. And the sights! As Michael led him on a winding course through the dimly lit room, Troy saw all kinds of fornication the likes none of the vague Bible stories he'd grown up on could prepare him for.

They passed a St Andrews cross where a redheaded young woman was strapped down, half covered in melted wax from candles lit all over her body. Three naked people, two women and a man, took turns fucking her every orifice with a variety of foods. Not far from them, a man who looked to be in his early 60s pounded away at a man half his age, while flogging himself with a short whip that had bits of sharp metal attached to the ends of the thin leather straps. Blood and sweat dripped down his back. Beyond them, a woman very pregnant woman with large breasts rode a man reverse cowgirl while another man tried to keep his cock in her mouth.

"Holy shit," Troy whispered to himself. The words were inaudible beneath cacophony in the room.

Michael led him deeper into the bunker, down a hall studded with several doors that were open. Each room held a large bed or just heaps of cushions where still more people piled, indulging their base urges. This area was overseen by several burly bouncers that kept the common crowd back. This was the coven's territory.

It wasn't hard to find Pieter: He had staked out the largest room, the one with the round bed large enough to sleep sixteen people. The triplets were with him, all bare and strewn about the wide mattress, half-spent already. Meg had noticeable red marks on her throat. When Michael entered the room, Pieter had Madison bent over, on her knees in the center of the bed, with one arm twisted painfully behind her back as he slammed his cock into her. Her shoulders carried the brunt of the force he was applying; she had to twist her head to the side in order to keep from having her face smashed into the bed.

"This is Pieter," Michael introduced. His words were casual, but he was watching the action on the bed with active interest. "He's the warlock of the coven my Aunt Fiona leads."

Troy stared. On the bed, Alec lifted his head to look at them. He glanced at Michael, but Troy held his attention, being someone that the albino had never seen before. He assessed the stranger then let his head drop. He needed to save his energy for Pieter.

"Pieter, this is Troy," Michael said, not at all hesitant to intrude on the man's moment. "Troy is the False Prophet."

Pieter gave Madison another good thrust then paused to look over at the pair in the doorway. He was panting for breath and slicked with sweat; his blond ponytail was in disarray. He gave Troy a long, hard look then smiled. It was a dark smile; hungry. He pulled out of Madison and gave her bottom a hard slap to get her moving out of his way. Scowling, she rolled away from him and grabbed a sheet to curl up in.

"Come here, boy," Pieter said to Troy.

Unlike Madison, the warlock did nothing to hide his nudity. He was still fully erect, which made it awkward for Troy to look at him.

"Go on," Michael urged him quietly. His words were almost playful. "He doesn't like to repeat himself."

Troy moved forward and it all started to feel like a dream. The influence of the strong liquor and the drugs in the air blurred the lines of reality. He couldn't really be there, living the moment he was living. It was too strange, too much like one of his visions.

"Strip," Pieter said.

Troy's eyes rounded and he looked back at Michael. The Antichrist was helping himself to one of Pieter's cigarettes, apparently unconcerned. Troy didn't want to make the man repeat himself, so he started to undress. He looked down at the buttons of his shirt so he wouldn't have to see how everyone in the room was watching him now. The music from the main room was a dull thump back here; a sleazy heartbeat.

When he was down to his underpants, Troy straightened and looked at Pieter. The man arched a brow.

"Those too," he said, waving to the boxers.

Ten hours ago, Troy was in a van with no shocks, riding toward a spiritual battlefield he was meant to help claim. In all his imaginings of how things might turn out, this was the furthest from what he pictured. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear, shoved them down and stepped out of them.

Madison uncurled a little to get a better look at the new boy. Though she was still upset at her recent treatment, she also couldn't help noticing Troy. He had a nice body and a charming face; a great cock. She was dead, but she wasn't blind. More than just looks: She could sense the latent power in him. The power was dormant, but it was strong.

"Don't just stand there, silly boy," Pieter chided. "Come here."

(( _Cue Paint It Black, Ciara cover_ ))

Troy felt himself blush from his head down to his chest. As the dark-haired young man moved closer to the bed, Michael took a seat at the small marble table near the wall. He dragged the lead crystal ashtray over to his side of the table, content to watch from the sidelines.

Pieter pushed himself to the edge of the mattress where he could reach Troy. He put his hands on the younger man's hips and drew him close, between his spread knees. He looked up and smiled a lazy smile.

"Delicious," he said, taking in the whole of the being before him.

"I'm a virgin," Troy blurted.

Madison laughed. It was a mean laugh. Troy blushed harder and looked at the floor. He didn't know what he was doing or saying. He felt drunk without the stumbling. The warlock's hands on him stirred the fire inside him, making him sweat. He tried to think of his church group, to second-guess his ill-thought-out plan to confront the Antichrist himself, but that life felt like a distant fantasy. A construct meant to drive him right to where he was now. Where he should be.

"A virgin?" Pieter smiled. "Not for long."

For a wild moment, Troy thought the Pieter was going to go down on him. Instead, the warlock palmed his hands over the younger man's ass and trailed a long lick from his hip to his ribs. Then, in a smooth motion, he flipped Troy onto his belly on the mattress. That's when Pieter went down on him, tonguing his back door for several mind-blowing seconds before shoving his cock in. Troy reared up instinctively with the pain, but the man pushed him back down and used his larger size to keep him pinned down.

"Please don't hurt me," Troy begged. The fire inside was smothered; he couldn't feel it past the cock in his ass.

"Growth has to hurt sometimes," Pieter growled in his ear.

He raped the younger man viciously then, trying to push him to his limit. Through it all, Michael sat and smoked and drank some of the vermouth Pieter had on ice at the sideboard. He found the sexual assault mildly arousing but he was still too worked up over Evangelina to muster true interest.

"Please! Make him stop!" Troy called out to Michael when Pieter changed positions for a deeper assault. The bed springs squeaked audibly with the force of his thrusts.

"You make him stop," Michael bantered, unsympathetic.

Troy gave a pained sob and tried to pull away, but Pieter held tight and kept him pinned. Madison curled up tighter where she was and drew the sheet close. If she wasn't chained to the bed by the damned collar on her throat, she would have left long ago. The triplets weren't physically bound but they stayed put as well. Tisi had her eyes shut and was pretending to rest. Alec couldn't stop staring. Meg had her fingers in her ears and her back to everyone. On her bottom, several bruises were slowly surfacing.

"Yes," Pieter encouraged breathlessly. "Stop me."

Troy yelped with each punishing thrust, unable to tap into the fire he knew was inside him. He just couldn't reach it while Pieter was violating him.

"I can't!" he cried.

"Then I will fuck you until you pass out," said the warlock cheerfully.

The younger man gave a miserable wail. Alec looked away finally. He had been through a similar ordeal with the blond man himself and already knew the ending.

"Please! Stop!" Troy gasped. He clutched at the sheets, but they were of no help to him.

Pieter barked a laugh and continued the sexual assault, plowing away until the stray missionary did indeed pass out from the pain and trauma. When the warlock finally satisfied himself, he pulled out and rolled the unconscious youth to the side, so he could flop wide on the bed.

"Mm," he purred. "I do love fresh meat. Toss me a cigarette?"

"He's not very bright," Michael remarked. He threw one of the black cigarettes over to the bed and followed it with a box of matches.

"He doesn't have to be," Pieter pointed out. He lit his cigarette then dragged himself to the heap of pillows at the nominal head of the bed. Propping himself there, he looked lazily over at Michael. "He just has to be loud. And he is."

Michael eyed the unconscious young man still sprawled where Pieter shoved him. "Is he marked? Tisi. Check him."

The eldest triplet stirred and crawled over to the stranger. She had a bite mark on her inner thigh. She checked Troy's hairline and behind his ears. "He is," she reported. She ran her fingers over the raised scar-like skin behind his left ear. It was an excuse to touch the pretty boy more.

"Good," said Michael. He crushed out his cigarette and got up to start pacing. "I want to use him to summon the Dragon."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

There was a touch of homage to **AHS Hotel** in this one, as well as a hefty dose of _The Sentinel_ and the _Omen_ series, and just a dash of _Rosemary's Baby_. I love the older occult horror stories. They were so raw and edgy; bold enough to rely on story more than visual effects. The 60's and 70's horror films also loved to throw in random nudity and graphic sex.

The next AHS season taps the 80's so I might do some of that in the next episode, which is coming soon. We're not quite done with this one. Poor Troy still has work to do.


	45. E6 Chapter 7 - Stranger Things

The first thing Troy registered on waking was pain. Opening his eyes, he found he was on his back, with his head turned to one side so that the first thing he saw was a very pale young woman looking back at him. They were both naked. She was on her belly, arms folded to provide a rest for her cheek. Her eyes were ice blue and intense as she stared at him.

Flickers of memory popped and flashed but didn't connect: Impressions of dirty sex and violence, of beasts and writhing bodies. He rubbed his face and eyes with both hands then looked at the woman again. Her pale lips quirked at the corners in a hint of a smile.

"What happened?" Troy asked groggily.

"You passed out," she said, her smile inching wider. She pushed herself up to her elbows and reached over to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I'm Tisi. You are Troy. Welcome home."

More flickers of memory flashed; the experience with Pieter was beginning to filter in. "Oh, sweet Jesus," he mumbled. No wonder he was so sore.

"Don't blaspheme," she chided, but her words lacked the sting of seriousness. She was making light of his background.

Troy lifted his head and looked around. They were alone in the room. "Where is everyone?"

Tisi twitched her shoulders. "They left." She pulled herself closer to him and pet a hand over his bare chest. "I'm supposed to bring you back to the hotel when you wake up."

Her smile had taken on a predatory edge that Troy found alluring. Magnetic. He bit his lower lip when her palm connected with and moved down his abdomen. His cock woke, rising to meet her questing hand. He knew he should ask her to clarify what she meant, but he didn't want interrupt what she was doing, so he didn't. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to feel her hand on his groin.

He sighed when she slipped her fingers around his shaft. "I'm going to Hell," he said, with no regret.

She giggled softly then pressed her lips to his, deepening the kiss as she stroked his sex. He reached up to put his arms around her. She shifted and slid atop him, angling his cock so she could mount him. He moaned into her mouth. Whatever pains he'd woken with were forgotten. Before long, the pair were fucking furiously, moaning and gasping and clawing at one another. It was a frenzied joining and when he came, he saw stars. His heart felt like it might seize from the strain of the release.

Tisi collapsed on top of him, her snowy skin slicked with sweat that cooled almost instantly, leaving her clammy. It was a bit like holding a dead person, but Troy was too delirious from pleasure to care. For a moment he lingered in a blissful state of complacency.

"Oh, God! I came inside you," he said, shocked back to his senses by the sudden realization.

She slid back off of him and sprawled on her back beside him. Her long, tangled hair tickled his arm. "I'm sterile."

The news came as a relief, though Troy wasn't sure whether he believed her. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Her smile came back. She draped an arm over her eyes because she could feel hot tears spring up and she didn't want him to see how much that simple, considerate phrase affected her. To him, it looked like a lazy move to block the light.

"You didn't hurt me," she said quietly.

Silence fell between them then. Troy knew he was at a major crossroad that would change his life and possibly the future of the world. Joining Michael was the worst thing he could do, according to everything the church had taught him over the years. It was dooming one's self to eternal damnation and punishment, if the Scripture was true. But it felt so sinfully right.

Troy had known temptation before, but this was beyond that. This was a distinct drive, a calling the likes he had heard elders go on about. He had assumed his calling was what had brought him as an orphan to the church. That had never inspired true feeling in him, though, much less a sense of purpose. He certainly hadn't performed miracles like throwing fire. But then he hadn't been raped into submission by anyone with the New World United Church either.

"Michael said I was the False Prophet," Troy said.

"He would know," said Tisi, in control of her emotions again. She let her arm drop to the mattress. "He is the son of Satan."

"But how?" wondered Troy. He still couldn't quite believe it. "I mean, I always knew I was different but not _that_ different."

"You just are," she said, sitting up. "We should head to the hotel."

She bent to steal a light kiss from his lips then she got up, jostling him a bit when her weight left the mattress. She was skinny but she had a beautiful body. There were several light injuries marring her skin, including the bite mark on her thigh. Troy found himself staring at that mark while the woman gathered her clothes.

"Get dressed," she urged when she saw he hadn't moved. "Unless you want to wash up first."

He looked down at himself. "I should, uh…yeah." He was a mess and definitely in need of cleaning. "Is there..?"

"The shower in the bathroom works," Tisi smiled at his awkwardness. "There's even hot water. No luxury is spared for the Prince of Darkness."

"Royalty hath privilege," Troy said and hauled himself to his feet. The sore stiffness returned, making him wince. A hot shower would be a blessing.

He made his way to the bathroom, started the shower, then went to rinse the night from his mouth. He intended to use water but there was some mouthwash on the side of the sink, so he took a bit of that, since he had no toothbrush. Then he saw his reflection.

His irises were solid black, and an upside-down cross was carved in his forehead, trickling blood down to his brows. A pentagram was carved in the center of his chest and more blood spilled down his torso in thin rivulets from each point of the encircled star. Shocked at the sight, he stumbled back and looked down at himself, his hands flying to the site of the injury on his chest only to find his flesh whole.

Troy looked at the mirror again and he saw what he should have seen before: His eyes were back to their normal brown and his forehead was whole and uninjured. Whatever he had seen wasn't real, not in a physical sense. His racing heart didn't care. Gripping the sides of the sink, he stared down into the basin and tried to get a grip on what reality even was.

His earliest memories involved his arrival at the church. It was the middle of the night; it was raining hard and the police car he rode in rattled with the sound of it. The radio chattered and made hissing noises that garbled the words so he couldn't understand them. He was eight years old when the police handed him over to the church, a foundling rescued from a town overrun by zombies. How he had survived, no one knew.

Troy couldn't remember what had happened before that night. Over the years he had tried to recall what his parents were like, or even what they looked like, but there was nothing there. Not even a faint impression. The blackness over his early years was almost complete: The only thing he could recall from his early childhood was a vague memory of being under a large parked vehicle—an RV or lorry truck bed—and cutting the palm of his hand on a piece of broken glass. It was a deep cut: He still had a scar from the injury, between the fleshy mounds of his thumb and palm.

Pulling away from the sink, Troy went and stepped into the shower. He let the hot spray beat down on his back. It felt good on his sore muscles. He wondered what his church group was doing. Likely they had noticed him missing yesterday but what could be done about it? Perhaps they had tried to report the disappearance to the local constabulary, but he doubted it. Those who enforced the laws in New 'Salem were enemies of the church.

Troy grabbed the soap and started washing. The heat of the water helped get him cleaner than he'd been in months. He'd forgotten how nice it could be to be truly clean. The idea of going back to the church group was growing more unappealing by the minute. He had never loved his life with them, though it was all he could remember. He wasn't sure what he had found in New 'Salem but he intended to explore it fully, even if it meant he would do it alone. There were worse things than being on his own.

…

Tate fully expected Michael to turn up at the Montgomery mansion the next day. The teen was ready for anger, which he welcomed; he would love a good brawl. He was even braced for a guilt trip. But as the day wore on without sign of Michael, Tate grew restless. As afternoon crept toward evening, he lost his patience and decided to do something about it. His antsy behavior had driven away those who might want to keep him company, so he didn't tell anyone where he was going when he left the house. He just went.

There were no abandoned cars along the road anymore; nothing to steal and drive. Scavengers and profiteers had confiscated everything on the foggy streets that could be moved. Even the old pile-ups and junk vehicles had all been harvested for parts. Being outside put Tate on edge. He didn't like the feeling of being exposed that persisted despite the fog. It had been years since he had seen the Dead Breakfast Club, or anyone from Westfield who had a grudge against him, but the paranoia still lingered.

To avoid walking the whole way, Tate apparated to the closest place he had been to the Bradford Hotel, choosing to start his search there since that's where Constance said Michael had been staying. The fog had extended completely over the area now, engulfing the venerable hotel. Crows of all sizes were gathered on and around it, hunkering on every available surface they could get their claws around. The top of the building in particular was choked with the black birds. It stirred nostalgia in Tate for the blood crows he once fostered. As unappealing as they were, they were the closest thing he'd had to pets.

None of these birds seemed inclined to be his companion, though. They all eyed him warily, beady eyes blinking soullessly at him as he passed. There were a few expensive-looking cars parked in front of the hotel and one Jeep that had seen much better days. Birds sat atop the vehicles as well, depositing large droppings on the windows.

A bird near the main doorway ruffled its feathers at Tate as he passed but otherwise the birds left him alone. He passed right through the double doors, noting as he did that they looked new. The paint was rich brown, and the ornately carved wood showed no sign of age or wear. He noted the condition without understanding its significance, his attention already on the lobby. There was a group of people there, Michael included, and they were discussing something rather animatedly.

Though Tate hadn't made himself visible, Michael looked right at him, acknowledging the ghost teen's presence without calling attention to it. The others kept talking, oblivious to his arrival. The Antichrist was seated in one of the ivory wingback chairs near the lit firepit, stylish in his usual pallet of expensive black materials. He had his long blond hair pulled back in a black velvet tie and looked every bit the Prince of Darkness that he was.

Tate nibbled his thumbnail and tried to get the gist of the conversation. The coven was discussing some ritual they were planning to do that night. It seemed to involve a stranger in their midst: A dark-haired guy that reminded Tate of Superman. Tate never liked Superman. He was too perfect. Batman was better because he was dark and had conflicts of morality. Tate didn't like this new guy either. He smiled too much and his smile was like a Ken doll's.

"Where'd you find this loser?" Tate said, circling the chair where the new guy sat.

Michael's lips thinned. "Excuse me a moment," he said to the others, cutting through the chatter.

He got up then and, after shooting Tate a meaningful look, he left the lobby. He headed for the basement, taking the main staircase because the back stairs led to the area where the succubus and her zombie familiar were being held. When he reached the main boiler area he turned, expecting to see Tate following along. The teen was standing right behind him, a peculiarly intense look in his dark eyes. For anyone else, it would have been a creepy encounter. Michael was unfazed.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"Because," Tate dismissed. "Why'd you tell me to come to your stupid birthday party if you were just going to bail on it?"

Michael's brows went up and his chin went down. "Really? You're upset about that?"

"Who's upset? Even though it _was_ a dick thing to do."

Michael was torn between impatience and amusement. "God. You are such a child."

The words were a casual critique, but he realized how true they were in a moment of sharp clarity. Memories of his childhood rushed back to Michael, memories of playing with a little boy his own age and the fight that had ended the friendship. It had been about Halloween and Michael not wanting to trick-or-treat any longer. He had gotten too old while Tate—going by the pseudonym Ethan then—still wanted to indulge in the childhood pastime. He was permanently stuck at a point Michael had grown past years ago. The ghost boy was no different than Thaddeus or Joshua or Beauregard in that respect.

"Fuck you," Tate snapped, unaware of the epiphany. "You're not so God-damned high-and-mighty mature. I saw what you did to Constance's car. You think you're so—Are you…crying?"

Michael brushed his wrist over his face, using his lace-cuffed sleeve to sop up the tears that had already made it to his chin. He twitched a crooked smile through the tears. "You know, you're right," he said. "I was a dick. And I apologize."

It was a blanket apology for the past ten years or so, as well as the party. Tate could sense the greater implication but had no idea what to do with it. He knew how to argue and how to fight. Screaming and hitting he understood. He didn't understand this.

"You think it's just that easy?" he challenged. "You say you were a dick and suddenly that just makes it all go away? Because it doesn't! I know because I've been saying sorry to people for years and it _doesn't matter_!"

The surge of his emotions manifested in the material world in the form of a psychic force that buckled the nearby boiler, ripping it from its pipes. Hot water hissed and steam quickly filled the area. Surprised by the sudden destruction, Michael moved back out of the way of the steam jets. As the surprise wore off, he eyed the damage critically.

"There goes the hot water," he said under his breath and moved to unplug the thing so it would stop spitting boiling hot water everywhere. The scalding liquid had no effect on him but could ruin other things down there. To Tate, he said: "Violet forgave you. So did the Warwicks."

The teen ghost simmered down right along with the boiler, cooled by Michael's intimate knowledge of his personal situation. He had never really spoken to him about it, that he could remember. Doubting himself led to a further deflation.

"Yeah, well," he said, picking at the sleeve of his sweater. "That took years. And lots of other shit.

"I want to make it up to you," persisted Michael. "I do. But right now, I'm trying to figure out how to get Evangelina back from the Dragon. He wasn't supposed to actually take her at the celebration."

Tate had seen the whole thing on the same display Michael had and had found the whole thing quite impressive. "That was crazy. I never thought I'd see a real dragon."

"There are many things coming that the world has never seen," prophesied Michael.

"Do you think the dragon will hurt her?"

"I don't know," Michael admitted. "That new guy upstairs? His name is Troy. He's going to help me get Evangelina back tonight. We're doing a ritual up at the Hollywood sign tonight." He hesitated, then added: "The fog extends to the sign, where we're doing it. You…can come."

It was the first time Michael had offered to include Tate in one of the coven's rituals, albeit hesitantly. Tate found it both flattering and disconcerting. "I'll ask Constance. She doesn't know I came here though. So…"

Michael tipped his head, again struck by how juvenile the spirit was. It was odd to Michael that Tate felt the need to ask permission from anyone to do anything when he was dead. But then, Mother Constance was a ghost as well. She likely had even more control over the teen in death than she had when bound to the flesh. Not for the first time that day, Michael found himself pitying his sire.

"Go ahead and ask her," Michael agreed. "I need to get back upstairs. If you do want to come later, we're meeting at the sign at sunset."

"Yeah. Okay," said Tate, shifting his weight. He felt somewhat unfulfilled since he hadn't gotten to properly vent his temper, but this was the closest to civil they'd been in years.

Michael went back upstairs. Tate hung around a few seconds longer, then apparated back to the mansion. He immediately went looking for Violet.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

This one got long. I tried to trim it on my first editing pass and it just got longer so I'm going to have to edit it again later. I hope you had fun with it though. Lots of horror Easter egg homages tucked in there. Some are more obvious than others, like the nod to Freddy's steamy boiler room. I'll point out a couple more when I re-edit this chapter later.

It's been getting busy around here since it's pre-Halloween month. I've already been to Spirit Halloween three times this year. I don't want to think about how many times I've haunted the seasonal sections of other stores.

Next time: Violate.


	46. E6 Chapter 8 - Shadows

Violet was in her bedroom with the lights off. The curtains were drawn against the harsh winter light. Where they didn't quite overlap, white knives of light carved the darkness, provided just enough ambient light to see her book by. It was a coffee table book of photos taken inside abandoned mental asylums and hospitals. The works focused mostly on areas that had been partially reclaimed by nature and were very pretty, if a bit grim due to their locale and individual histories, which the author carefully detailed in small print beneath each.

She looked up when the door nudged open and Tate came in. Sucking a last drag off her cigarette, she put it out in the ashtray on her bedside table then set the book aside, leaving it open to the page she had been looking at.

"Hey," she smiled.

"Hey," he responded and trudged over to where she was. "What're you looking at?"

"A photo book." She glanced at it. "It's of all these abandoned asylums and things. See this one?"

She pointed to a large picture taken from the inside of an old building from the vantage of looking out through the window. The pane had no glass in it, broken years ago. The paint on the window sill had peeled back in thick curls.

"That's neat," Tate admired. He liked the way the sunlight played on the leaves of the tree that was right outside the broken window.

"It's a window where a patient jumped to her death," Violet said. "What's weird, though, is the window is in a part of the hospital that was always locked. There's no record of how she got up there without anybody seeing her."

Tate examined the photo for several silent seconds, digesting that. "Somebody probably pushed her."

Violet pushed her long hair behind an ear to stop it blocking her view of the photo. "Yeah. Probably. Not like they could ask her afterwards, since she was dead. Makes more sense than her getting past security, through locked doors."

"Yeah," agreed Tate.

He climbed up onto the bed then, crowding against her side until she scooted over to make room for him. He slipped his arms around her waist. He liked her waist, which was so narrow he could circle his arms snugly around her in a way that made him feel securely rooted. She pet his messy hair and for a moment everything felt right in his world. He was tempted to just drift in that moment, to let it extend indefinitely and forget the physical plane entirely. But, the problems of the real world wouldn't go away just because he ignored it, and they wouldn't pause either.

"Do you think Michael's evil?" he asked after a few precious seconds of quiet bliss.

Violet's hand stopped petting. "I…Yes?"

"Why?" He shifted so he could see her face better, needing to see the nuances of her expression.

She thought about the question. "Well. He was born to be. I mean. He's, like, the Devil's son."

Tate made a face. "But he's my son." He paused, then added: "Does that make me the Devil?"

"No," Violet said promptly. "Of course not. You were just…You know. A conduit."

For years, Tate had accepted that idea, but it wasn't enough for him now. "But I made Michael. So, what's that make me?"

A soft sigh escaped Violet's lips to vent her growing frustration. She had feared this sort of conversation once upon a time, but it had been years since it had been a concern. Why it was coming up now was a mystery. So, she employed her father's technique.

"What's going on, Tate? Did something happen?"

He didn't want to give up the debate, but she was looking at him with such concern that he felt obligated to answer. Reluctantly he told her about the Dragon and Evangelina, and Michael's plan to use the new guy to try and get her back.

Violet stewed on the information for a bit, petting his hair to help her think. "What happened to you and—and to my mom," she said, faltering because she still found the thought repugnant. "That wasn't you and it wasn't her. Not really. That was the house. Or whatever controls it."

She tipped her head back and looked up at the dark ceiling. The shadows were complete up there. It was like looking into a void. Something she could fall into forever.

"We still don't really understand what it is," she said quietly. "All we know is what Father Jeremiah said about the place belonging to the fallen angels. Demon, fallen angel…Whatever it is? It used you both to make Michael."

Violet knew Tate's conception was odd too, involving one of the ghosts in the house, but Constance had sworn her to secrecy on the matter. Knowing might offer some clarity for Tate, but Violet wasn't sure it would be worth the upset it would cause him. She didn't mind risking Constance's wrath, but she didn't want to hurt Tate with information that wouldn't really help him. His capacity for handling information that challenged what he wanted to believe was very low. For reasons not entirely clear to her, Tate desperately needed to believe his father was a Mercedes dealer who'd been driven to the arms of another woman by his cheating wife.

Part of it was self-defense, she knew: It was Tate's only shield against Constance's controlling tendencies. Even Violet had to fend off the woman's prying, demanding ways more than once over the years. Being told his father was actually Charles Montgomery would call into question everything Tate believed about what happened between Hugo and Constance. It would cast uncertainty over everything he thought he knew about his life and his death, and reshape his self-image, and likely not for the better.

No, in this matter Violet knew it was best to keep Tate in the dark. Even Moyra believed that and she had no love for the teen boy, dead or alive.

"Are we supposed to hate him?" Tate asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. "I feel like I should only…I don't."

"I…don't know," Violet said slowly, chewing on the question. "Godly religions preach you shouldn't hate anybody, from what I've read. But a lot of them do."

"Shit. Religions hate people the most." Tate squeezed her waist and pressed his cheek against her tummy. "I miss the kid he used to be. Why'd that part have to go by so fast?" Thinking about it made his eyes water.

"The best parts always do," she said with sympathy. "Hey. Maybe you could ask him to tell people to stop the all the sacrifices and crazy shit. If he tells them, they'll listen to him. If he does that, you'll know he's not, like, irredeemable. You know?"

"Maybe," Tate agreed. He thought about it some and warmed to the idea. "I'm going to the Hollywood sign tonight when they do the ritual. See what that's about. Maybe I'll talk to him then."

"I'll come," volunteered Violet.

He thought about it and smiled. "Cool. It'll be like our dates in Grand Theft Auto, only for real."

She snorted a laugh and kissed him lightly on the lips. Her soft hair tickled his face. "Just no crazy flips or roll-overs. Okay?"

…

It was Violet who drove up to the hills, in the end, using the car Patrick normally took into the village when Chad sent him to the market for something. Driving was the best way to ensure they arrived at the same place at the same time but Tate's stop-and-go method of riding both the gas and brake pedals was an inefficient process the girl just couldn't sit through. She commandeered the vehicle after two blocks.

Once Violet was behind the wheel, they made swift progress, arriving at the fenced-off area of Griffith Park quickly. The chain-link fence was rusty, and half fallen over. Plants choked what was left of the barrier. Anything could easily access the steep climb that led up Mount Lee to the Hollywood sign. Putting the car in park, she slid out of the driver's seat; Tate got out as well. Together they headed up into the overgrown foliage.

They followed a narrow path that had once been wider, a way that trespassers once took to get closer to the sign but was now used mostly by animals. The steep trail cut straight up into the hill, following a natural rain runoff.

Despite living and being dead in Los Angeles his whole existence, Tate had never been so close to the Hollywood sign. It had never meant anything to him beyond a kitschy bit of silver screen nostalgia. The way up to it was hardly worth the trip. It was steep, rocky, and badly overgrown. To make things easier, he and Violet had to pass through the knotwork of branches or else they'd be there all night.

Coming around a large rock, Violet stopped short and Tate quickly saw why: There was a woman on the trail ahead of them. Her clothes put Tate in mind of the things he'd seen Mrs Nora wear, though this lady's style was from the 30's, not the 20's. The woman had short hair set in a finger-wave and a dreamy, melancholy expression. Dressed in white, she had an ephemeral quality the teens instantly recognized.

"Oh!" the woman said, as surprised to see them as they were to see her. "Pardon me."

"No worries," Violet dismissed. "Are you—Where are you going?"

The woman looked down. "Nowhere, I suppose. I came here to—to end it." She covered her face with her hands and started to weep. "But I couldn't."

Tate leaned close to Violet and whispered, "Should we tell her?"

Violet pursed her lips. Tact seemed prudent. "Why would you want to kill yourself?"

The young woman's shoulders quaked from the restraint she was showing in order to keep her sobs delicate. Wailing was gauche and she refused to embarrass herself in such a way. "I'm a failure! My whole life, all I ever wanted was to be a successful leading lady in pictures." She sniffled and tried to collect herself, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a hanky pulled from her bosom.

"What's your name?" Tate asked, thinking perhaps he might recognize her.

"Peg," she said tearfully. "Peg Entwhistle." She focused on Tate then and desperation lit her pale blue eyes. "Tell me. Do you think I'm pretty? Do you?"

She drifted over to him; her feet barely touched the ground. Her sudden attitude shift sounded an alarm for Violet, and she put herself between the woman and Tate without pause for thought.

"That's not something you should be asking my boyfriend," she said.

The woman glared at the teen girl and her melancholy features twisted into a mask of rage. She gave a terrible shriek that stretched her mouth so wide that the corners tore. Her jaw unhinged as she continued to howl, showing several rows of pointy teeth. She lunged at Violet, who was momentarily stunned by the hideous display.

"Go away!"

At Tate's shout, the apparition vanished. There was a tense pause that followed while they waited to see if the thing attacked again. When the crickets began to chirp again, killing the eerie stillness, Tate looked at Violet. She looked back at him with round eyes.

"I wasn't sure that would work outside the house," Tate said with a tight smile. "Good to know."

"Yeah," she said. Then she pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her sweater and lit one. "Holy shit. That was something." She pulled a long drag then tipped her head. "I wonder what makes some ghosts like that. You know? All gnarly and monstrous."

They started up the hill again. "Shadows," Tate said as they went.

"Shadows?"

"Yeah. It's like…" Tate looked down at the dark rock-studded ground as he fished for the memory. It was vague and took time to latch onto. "There was this guy who said that every person is really two people: The light and the dark. The light's what makes people want to help each other and share things. The shadow's greedy and loves temptation."

"Just…some guy said it?" Violet's poke was a blend of playful tease and genuine curiosity.

"A psychiatrist. Carl Jung!" Tate said triumphantly when the name surfaced. Then he remembered something. "You know, the Cherokee people have a belief like it too. They call it the fight between two wolves. The story goes: One day, this old Cherokee man is talking to his grandson and the kid asks him about these feelings he has. And his granddad, who's this wise old guy, tells him the feelings come from two wolves. One wolf is anger, envy, sorrow, greed, and all those bad things. The other wolf is joy, kindness, generosity, compassion, and that kind of good stuff.

"So, the old guy, he tells his grandson that everybody has these two wolves fighting inside them. And the grandson asks him…which one will win? And the old man says: 'Whichever one you feed.'."

Violet tipped her head, struck by the metaphoric wisdom. "Huh. That's pretty profound."

"I know when I 'feed' my shadow, it does pretty crazy shit," Tate admitted. "It feels good to let it go. Too good."

Violet wanted to pursue the matter further because she could sense an opportunity to ferret some answers out of him for once, but just then the sky above them lit up brightly for a few seconds, brilliant red light followed by an explosion. Someone had set off a firework from the hilltop.

"Looks like they're starting," said Tate.

"Shit," Violet cursed the interruption. "Let's go."

—

* * *

Author's Note:

Things are finally starting to settle down for me following the unexpected death in my family. However, since it's nearing Halloween, my prop business is kicking into high gear, which means I'll be traveling to California twice in the next 4 weeks. After Halloween, things should be a lot less crazy.

So, in all the chaos, I guess I lost track of how long this Episode got. We've got one more chapter before it's done. We're heading up the hill to check out what Michael's doing, then we can roll credits. The next Episode after this one is quite aptly named "Sacrifices". But first we have to get through Michael's plan to summon the Dragon. 


	47. E6 Chapter 9 - Prince of Darkness

For the first time in years, the Hollywood sign was lit up. The 'Y' kept flickering on and off and a portion of the inside of the first 'O' had broken free with age, making the sign intermittently look like 'Hell wood' from a distance.

Michael's chosen few had assembled atop the H: Seven of the coven members were there with him, and Troy was there as well. It was Tisi who was tasked with setting off the firework that signaled the start of the ritual. A white goat that had been hauled up in a large black iron cage bleated as Alec let it out. He slipped a rope around its neck and led the nervous creature to the center, where Michael waited with his hunting knife in hand. The face of the girl who had once owned the knife surfaced briefly in his thoughts then he shoved her back down again.

Instead of her, he focused his thoughts on the Dragon. He put his free hand on the goat's head, taking hold of its nearest horn. The goat looked up at him, its hourglass eye wide and uncomprehending.

"Father!" he said, raising his voice boldly. He looked out over foggy Los Angeles. "I ask you to come to me!"

In a single, swift motion, he slit the goat's throat. Hot blood poured out, steaming in the cold air. Meg caught as much as she could in a large bowl. The animal wobbled and fell over, so she positioned its head over the bowl. There was blood everywhere and it got all over her, deep red against her pale skin and ashen clothes. When the bowl was full to the brim, she carried it over to Fiona, painted a large pentagram on the surface beneath their feet using an ancient brush carved with arcane sigils.

"Call to him," Michael instructed Troy when Fiona had finished the symbol.

"How?" asked Troy. "What do I do?"

"Call Him," insisted Michael. "How do you call someone?"

That was no help to Troy. He looked around and saw the witches looking back at him expectantly. He had no idea what he was expected to do, but it bolstered his ego to have captured everyone's attention, even the Son of Satan. They were all watching him, expecting great things. So, he tried tapping his religious schooling for inspiration.

Straightening up, he threw his arms wide like the illustrations of Moses on the mountain when he was speaking to God. "Prince of Darkness! Morningstar!" Troy projected, and his voice was magnified like he'd shouted into a loud-speaker. It was loud enough to make most of the onlookers cover their ears. "Hear our call!"

The silence that followed was almost as deafening; nothing living stirred for several seconds after the ear-splitting broadcast. As the seconds stretched, Troy looked around again.

"Maybe He didn't hear..?" the young man ventured.

"I did."

The voice was like a clap of thunder, surprising the assemblage with a sound that could be felt as well as heard. The darkest shadows coalesced into a single form positioned midway between Troy and Michael. Then the darkness fell back, like a cloak or a pair of great wings unfolding, revealing a striking man of unearthly beauty. He was so radiant and intense, His presence was like that of an atomic explosion or a black hole.

The relation between Michael and the new arrival was undeniably visible, though this creature's eyes were solid black, lacking any human semblance in that respect. His golden hair fell loosely about his strong shoulders and he was dressed in shadows that crawled over His body in a rough semblance of a toga that connected directly to his cloak-like leathery wings. Looking at him was to look at desire embodied. Every individual in His presence was smitten by Him, even the strongest of them. Several witches fell to their knees; many cried out in longing.

Michael stared at the fallen angel, stunned by His raw power. Even he wasn't proof against the ancient being's incredible magnetism. It took him a moment to remember why they were even there but when he did, he seized on the idea and drew strength from it. If this creature was potent, then so was he, as he was descended from the same line.

"You took a woman last night," he said. He tried to make his words fierce, but it felt like yelling into a hurricane. "I want her back."

Ignoring the others, the dark celestial assessed Michael with a gaze so penetrating, he could feel it pierce his soul. The angel's mind invaded his own, saturating it like a flood. His head pressurized with the weight of ancient thoughts, but he fought back the urge to bend. He kept his hands at his sides, though he longed to grab at his head because it felt like it was swelling. Strengthening his will with his own rage and determination, he gazed right back at the archangel. Even when his nose started to bleed, he didn't look away.

" _So young_ ," Lucifer said directly to his spirit, so that only Michael heard. The thoughts came as concepts, not words. " _So frail. So full of potential but so pitiably human._ "

The intimate meeting of minds was uncomfortable on many levels, but familiar as well. It was the Dragon's voice inside him, the same that spoke to him when he was a child. The familiarity fueled his determination.

" _I am the Prince of the Earth_ ," he rallied internally. No words passed his lips. " _I am your son. And I want Evangelina back._ "

Michael felt the sign shift under him as Lucifer drew closer to him. The thought occurred to the young man that another earthquake might be starting but he refused to allow anything to distract him from the contest of wills he was engaged in. If he let that happen, he might very well lose his chance to fix things the way he wanted. Around him, the onlookers watched, aware that something was happening between the two but unable to tell what.

"Should we do something?" Troy asked and was vehemently shushed by Fiona.

The witch shot him a deadly look. Michael was bleeding but the Supreme trusted her nephew to know his limits. Though she, too, was overwhelmed by the presence of the Lord of the Underworld, there was a kernel of pride in seeing him go head-to-head with a being so powerful. She would personally kill anyone who tried to interrupt the moment.

" _She is the Mother of the future_ ," the fallen archangel imparted to Michael, mild amusement suffusing the thoughts. " _You will protect her. The offspring require instruction. They will lead new nations when the war is done._ "

" _Return Father Jeremiah_ ," Michael pushed. He found a surprising amount of untapped strength in his conviction. " _He is the best teacher. I need him whole again. Please._ "

There was the slightest hesitation while the entity considered the request. Then: " _Consent given. You will make an equivalent sacrifice._ "

Lucifer took another step forward, pressing two of His fingers to His lips as he did. He then placed those fingers on Michael's forehead, right over the area Misty Day called the Third Eye. At the same time, the 'H' sign they stood on leaned to the east with a groan of old steel. Michael didn't notice; his father's touch had knocked him senseless.

The shadows coalesced again, swallowing the fallen angel before shattering into thousands of inky fragments. Someone screamed when the sign started shudder and sway violently. Michael's unconscious form slid back toward the west. Troy, who was in his path and staggering to stay on his feet, was bowled over.

"We should get down," Pietre decided, voicing what everyone else was thinking.

The ghosts had it easiest: They weren't in any real danger since they could disapparate and appear where ever they wanted. The living were forced to make a hasty retreat back down the ladder.

"Get Michael!" Fiona demanded of Troy.

But the dark-haired young man had problems of his own, trying to get up while the sign was giving way beneath them. He ignored the Supreme and scrambled for the ladder on all fours.

"Fucking amateur!" Fiona spat.

Exasperated, she put a hand out and grabbed, drawing on the local ley lines to power the silent spell. A lesser witch would have had to use a focus, like a wand, to accomplish such a feat on the fly but Fiona had given up as many of those weaknesses as she could. She liked her magic raw, dark, and direct. Clenching her hand into a tight fist, she tugged. Michael slid back across the sign, toward her.

He regained consciousness on his back as he slid and found himself looking up at the black night sky. He could hear shouting and smell dust and rust. Then everything came back to him and he tried to get to his feet, but he was held. Fiona, feeling him struggle in her psychic grip, let him go.

"Come on!" she shouted and quickly headed the direction the others had already gone.

One after the other, the group scurried down the ladder. There was a screech of splitting metal and the 'H' tilted sharply to the east, striking the 'O' hard. The sound reverberated like a giant bell and somewhere below, something cracked loudly.

The ladder on the side of the 'H' gave way with all but Pieter still on it.

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

Cue music, roll credits, end Episode 6.

So there he was. Grandaddy of 'em all. The square root of Langdon. Lucifer's humanoid seeming was largely inspired by old paintings and by Dream, a character in Neil Gaiman's _Sandman_ series. Is it bad that I want him to show up again? Probably. Will he? I have no idea! I guess we'll all find out together.

Next Episode: Sacrifices. Lots of them.


	48. E7 Chapter 1 - Sacrifices

**Two days ago…**

Billie Dean fiddled with the dial on the radio, trying to tune in a local station. Some of the areas she and Constance had been through when they were still traveling together were advanced enough to have a radio station. In some cases, they had more than one. She tended to leave the radio on low volume in hopes of catching something. Currently, she was struggling to hear the soaring vocals of Johnny Mathis crooning "Chances Are" through a storm of static snow, with the music fading in and out as she tried to pinpoint the call number.

In addition to breaking up the silence of traveling alone, local stations were helpful for getting a feel for what was happening in the world. The last update she'd heard, rumor said there was a telecommunications network up in Massachusetts that was becoming something of an official broadcasting location. It was also supposedly one of the few areas left in the world that had a network of computer servers up and running. It wasn't the Internet but it was a huge step toward reclaiming what society had lost.

Billie Dean had thought about heading that direction, but she'd had her fill of witches in New 'Salem. She didn't want to take chances encountering any on their home turf. She was likely to get sent right back to Fiona if she did. So, she headed toward Mexico instead. As she drove further south, the city gave way to the seaside. Bluffs and sandy hills erupted from the fog, a pleasant change from the hunkering silhouettes of rundown buildings and abandoned gas stations she had been passing for miles. Having something other than static on the radio would make the drive that much better.

While she was distracted with the radio, a figure stumbled out into the road, right in front of her car. There was a loud thump as the front end of the vehicle connected solidly with the individual. The impact caused her to look up in panic, but all she saw was a flash of dark cloth and a streak of blood across her windshield, then they were gone. A new spiderweb crack distorted the lower portion of the driver's side of the windshield.

Billie Dean slammed on the brakes and the car came to a stop with a hard jerk. Heart thundering, the startled woman sat there for a moment, trying to sort out what had happened. She had hit something; of that she was certain. The blood streak on her window was slowly oozing down the fractured glass. Exactly what she had hit was hard to guess at but she was sure she had seen cloth, which meant it was likely human, or had been at some point. Looking in the rear view mirror, she could see a dark lump on the foggy road behind her. It wasn't moving. That didn't necessarily mean anything, though. Not in this crazy world.

Billie Dean debated driving away. If it was a zombie or some other undead creature, she wasn't sure if she could fight it off by herself. But there was a chance it was a person she had hit, one that was alive and possibly seriously injured because of her distraction. She groaned at her bad luck and indecision in how to handle things. Of all times for something to cross her path, why did it have to be while she was looking away? For an instant she missed Constance. The woman was the definition of collected. She would know what to do at a moment like this, and even if she didn't, she would know how to fake it well enough to pass.

She realized with a chill that it was possible the collision wasn't coincidental at all. Between the strange powers the coven possessed, Michael's growing abilities, and all the other strangeness in the world, it was quite possible the individual was quite literally put in her path for a reason. Understanding that only weighted the situation more. Were they put there by someone trying to help her? Or someone trying to harm her? Some other reason? After sitting there watching the form on the road for several seconds, Billie Dean reached over and pulled the loaded handgun from the glove compartment. She took the safety off. If she was going to investigate, she was doing it ready for action.

She took a steadying breath and opened the car door. Fog swept in, wrapping around her in curling tendrils that carried the scent of the sea. In the distance she could hear the ocean and the raspy cry of sea fowl. With both hands around the gun and one finger on the trigger, the medium crept a few steps closer to the stationary lump in the road. At that range, she could easily sense he wasn't a spirit or other undead thing.

"Hello..?" she called and immediately wished her voice didn't sound so timid. Screwing up her courage, she added in a firmer voice: "Are you alive?"

The body didn't respond. Billie Dean inched forward warily, pausing every few steps. The wind stirred the mist but otherwise there was no motion on the road apart from her own mincing approach.

When she was just out of arm's reach she tried again. "Hello?"

There was no response. She could see dark brown hair and dark red blood on the pavement. After another moment spent rallying her nerves, she stooped down and put a hand on them. She found a shoulder and was able to carefully roll the individual over. It was a young man, roughly 20 years old if she had to guess. He was dressed in a black trench coat that was too big for him. He had a long cut above his left eye and his right arm was laying at a funny angle. He was breathing, though he was unconscious.

Billie Dean agonized. She felt badly for hitting him with her car and she knew if she left him prone on the road, something worse would happen to him. She had no way of knowing what kind of person he was, though. If she put him in the car and he woke while she was driving, he might attack her. He could be insane or worse. She wasn't pulling any strange vibes off of him; nothing supernatural. It wasn't much of a comfort, though. She had known too many people who were considered "normal" who were just as dangerous as any witch or ghost she'd encountered.

She cast about, looking for inspiration or a solution, and suddenly saw it. The fog was thin enough to make out a nearby beach house, an abandoned summer spot that had seen much better days. She knew what to do then. Once she moved the car to the side of the road and parked it, she got back out and got to work. He was too heavy for the older woman to lift, so she dragged him as gently as she could toward the weathered old home.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

 **Present Day**

( _Suggested reading music set at a quiet volume: Drop the Game by Flume & Chet Faker_)

When Desiree was a little girl living in St. John's Parish, she met a zombie for the first time. The experience completely changed her whole world. She was visiting her grandmother in New Orleans proper when it happened. The Halloween encounter opened her eyes to the very real world of the paranormal and it proved to her that there were still gentlemen in the world, even if they were shambling undead monsters. If it weren't for him, she never would have sought out the Voodoo Queen. And it was through that harrowing encounter that she had found her way into the coven.

The zombie who had rescued her that night from a pack of older boys intent on stealing her candy was the very same zombie she was tasked with feeding now. Balancing the tray of food carefully, she made her way down the steep basement stairs. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting before forging ahead. This section of the basement was filled with machinery and wires that ran the upper portion of the old hotel. It smelled its age down there.

Around a corner made of large boiler pipes was the cage the undead boy was being held in. It was technically built for a large dog and barely big enough for him to sit in. Another canine crate deeper in the basement held the girl that the coven had captured in Sin City. Pieter insisted she was a succubus but if she was, the cursed collar she wore arrested her abilities. She seemed like a normal girl to Desiree. The Supreme had enchanted both cages so they were proof against physical or magical tampering.

"I brought ya some food," she said to Kyle when she arrived at his cage. Speaking to the prisoners wasn't forbidden, though it wasn't encouraged either.

Kyle glared at her from the kennel. He hadn't seen a shower or comb in days, lending him a feral quality.

The witch crouched down and passed the tray through the slot in the crate's door. Unlike most of the other women in the coven, Desiree favored pants over skirts, and situations like this only proved her choice right. Kyle hesitated, then accepted the tray. Once it was in his hands, he promptly threw it at her. The tray banged against the cage door. Mashed potatoes and beans went everywhere, mostly inside the cage. Desiree flinched back instinctively then looked at the mess, dismayed.

"You have to eat," she insisted. She made a feeble attempt to brush potatoes off her black crushed velvet pants. "If you don't eat, you'll starve."

Kyle glared at her and turned so his shoulder was to her, like a shield.

"I know you can understand me," she said. She gave up on keeping her pants clean and scooted closer to the messy cage door. "Do you—A few years back, you helped a little girl on Halloween. She'd have been about ten, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Do you remember?"

The young man in the cage shifted a little so he could peek at her over his shoulder. Her words stirred something in his thoughts, but it was muddy and indistinct.

"I was dressed as...a fairy that year," she went on since she had his attention. She put her hand on the slot where she'd put the tray, to steady herself. It meant getting more potatoes on her but she didn't care. "I had to go alone because my sister got sick that year. So I was gonna give half of what I got to her. Not the better half, I'll admit," she smiled. "But still. I was gonna share it with her. Then these mean older boys, they came out the cemetery and just grabbed my bucket of candy, right outta my hands!"

Kyle vaguely remembered encountering some teen boys who had a pumpkin full of candy that didn't belong to them. He also remembered standing in a yard full of zombies. Then another memory struggled to surface. He scooted a little closer to the cage door.

"I don't know where you came from," Desiree went on, shaking her head. She noticed peripherally that she had potatoes on the end of her thin braids too. "But all a-sudden, there you were, kickin' butt and taking my candy back for me. I knew you weren't like anybody else I ever met. Wasn't sure what you were until I talked to my maman. By then, though, you's long gone."

"Flower," grunted Kyle.

Desiree looked at him in surprise then broke out in an impish smile that showed straight, white teeth. "Yeah. Yeah, y'right. I gave you a flower after ya showed those assholes what was what. Damn! You got a good memory."

The overt praise from a kindly feminine source felt good; it made Kyle want to smile at her. He didn't have a good memory at all but in that moment, he could pretend. The expression didn't take, though. He hated the cage he was in. Every time he shifted he was reminded of how cooped-up he was.

"I'm sorry," Desiree sympathized, reading his expression. "I hate that they have you down here. I guess they're afraid if they let you out, you'll run amok."

Kyle would do exactly that and he wasn't afraid to own it. He huffed a surly breath and gave the cage door a meaningful shake. It was a token effort and he only used one hand; he had already exhausted himself previously trying to bust out. He knew he couldn't escape, but she might have the ability to let him out.

"I can't open it," said the witch apologetically. "Fiona's spell is way too strong. Besides, you wouldn't get far. There's no way outta here that they don't got people sittin' on, ever since that psychic lady took off with one of Fiona's prisoners."

Kyle heaved a sigh and put his back to her again.

"Don't be like that," she chided. With body language that strong, who needed words? She squatted there, helplessly staring at his back for several seconds before heaving a sigh of her own. "I'll bring you some more food later, when I can get away. Okay?"

Just then there was a rumbling underfoot and in the surrounding basement walls. The dim lights flickered and went out briefly before coming back on again. Mood forgotten, Kyle sat up straight and alert, eyeing the ceiling warily. Desiree uncurled from the protective stance she'd taken and stood up.

"Whatever that was," she said. "I got a bad feelin' about it. I'll be back."

She hurried for the stairs then, forcing herself to tune out the patchwork boy's unhappy, insistent grunts that followed her. There was nothing she could do for him…yet.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The song "Chances Are" by Johnny Mathis was featured briefly in a scene in the sci-fi horror film _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_. It played in the background during the scene when the little boy is abducted by the aliens. I remember seeing it as a kid. It was one of the first truly scary moments in a movie for me, because I was about six when I saw it and suddenly a whole new realm of fears was opened up to me, beginning with large dog doors and ending with being abducted. It never even occurred to me before then what a mother might go through if her child was taken from her, for any reason.

So, I know I sorta left things on a cliff-hanger at the end of last episode. I couldn't resist stringing things along a little while longer. Call it my Halloween-month spirit. But we'll get back to Michael and the rain of witches next chapter.


	49. E7 Chapter 2 - Repercussions

Michael was falling. The dark world tumbled out of control for an instant then time seemed to slow down. He saw Aunt Fiona falling near him and, just below her, Troy flailed helplessly. Then Fiona's form blurred like a smeared spot of ink. It condensed, became feathery, then became a raven that flew up and out, away from the collapsing sign.

There was no time to think about what just happened. Michael just acted. He grabbed hold of Troy's nearest arm and shifted them both to the ground. It wasn't the easiest of landings because he didn't correct for the speed they were falling at and he'd never tried to take someone else with him before. They hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from Troy and temporarily stunning them both. Michael recovered quickest, scrambling to his feet to survey the situation. The giant H leaned precariously up against the O. The ladder and part of the side of the H were on the ground. Nearby, Pieter was tending to the triplets, helping them up and checking them for injury.

"Where are the others?" Michael wanted to know. "Kerri? Dawn?"

Troy pushed himself up off the ground and looked around as well. He was quite a sight, covered in dirt. There was a smear of blood on his lower lip. Michael didn't look much better at the moment. His black velvet coat was ruined, and his hair was a mess.

"There!" exclaimed Troy, on spying a tattooed arm sticking out from under the collapsed ladder. He hurried over and shoved it off with some effort. The two missing women were underneath the twisted metal wreckage, both covered in blood and dust.

"Are they all right?" asked Michael as he came over.

"Shit. I think they're both dead," Troy said, trying to find a pulse on either one. "Shit! What the hell happened up there?"

The raven returned, alighting on Michael's shoulder with a rattle of black feathers. "Aunt Fiona," he acknowledged. "I didn't know you could do that."

The bird fluffed her feathers in a huffy manner. "There are many things I can do that you're not aware of," she said. But Michael and Pietre were the only ones who understood her. The rest only heard a raspy caw.

"Are you going to change back?" Pieter interjected. His tone and expression were knowing, bordering on smug.

"When I'm ready," Fiona cawed, flexing a wing to show how unhurried she was.

It was then that Michael began to suspect she couldn't just change herself back, but it wasn't the time to dig into the matter. "Alec? Are you all right? Yes? Good. You and Troy grab Kerri and Dawn. We need to take them back to the hotel and prepare them for incineration."

"Incineration?" squawked Fiona. Her claws dug into Michael's shoulder. "We're going to resurrect them!"

"No," Michael said firmly.

He pushed his arm up under his aunt's bird body, forcing her to step up onto it or else be shoved off. Once she was on his arm, he brought her around so he could make eye contact. Even though she had raven eyes, he could still see the keenness of her personality showing through clearly.

"We're not resurrecting them," the young man said. "They are payment for Evangelina and Jeremiah."

"Is she saying something?" Troy muttered to Tisi, who gave the tiniest of shrugs.

Alec was already pulling Dawn from the wreckage, so Troy went to grab the other girl. Kerri's oil slick hair was matted with dirt, blood, and grass and her pretty face was marred by a visibly broken nose.

"I didn't agree to that," Fiona huffed.

"We both did when we performed this ritual," said Michael, unperturbed by his aunt's ire. "My Father takes what He is due."

The raven's feathers puffed up again, but she didn't argue the matter further. Michael transferred her to his shoulder again and headed for the cars. He noticed as he did that the ghosts had left. He had wanted to speak to them, but it could wait until the dead witches were dealt with. He knew where to find the pair.

…

"Holy shit," Violet said once she and Tate were both in her bedroom back at Murder House. "What the hell was that?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed. Tate sat down beside her and collected her nearest hand for holding.

"I think…it was the root of whatever drives this place," Tate said hesitantly. He chewed on the cuticle of his thumb and then shifted to the index finger, nervously gnawing.

"Yeah, well. I hope it doesn't want to come over." The dry joke fell flat. Violet swept her hair back from her face with her free hand. Then she looked at Tate. "Are you okay?"

He pulled his finger from his mouth. "Yeah. I mean. No. Can we never go out again?"

Violet smiled crookedly. "You never want to go out of the house again?"

"That'd be okay with me," Tate agreed.

"Why?"

He looked down at their clasped hands. He noticed her cuticles were ragged like his, but he never saw her nibble hers. "Every time I go out, bad things happen. I'm sick of it. The world's a literal shit show, Violet. There's nothing out there I want to see."

He expected her to chide him but her smile inched wider. She squeezed his hand.

"It was always a shit show," she reminded. "Since long before us. I don't think anybody understands what's going on. Not even that big thing, whatever the fuck it was."

When Tate looked at her, he still looked unconvinced but there was a sliver of hope in his eyes. "Yeah. I guess so. I wish somebody did, though." He gave a short laugh. "I used to hate rules, you know? Now I kind of wish there were some."

Violet squeezed his hand again. "There are. Not just here. Out there, too. We just have to figure out what they are."

Tate wrinkled his nose. "Shit like that should be in a book."

"Like the Bible?"

"Fuck that."

Violet laughed. "Maybe you should write the rule book then."

"Nobody would listen to me," he waved aside. "Maybe you should."

"I don't want to write a new Bible."

"Somebody should."

"Maybe Michael will."

"Nooo," Tate balked. "Not him either. Definitely not him."

"Then who?"

Tate thought and thought but he couldn't think of anyone qualified to lay down the rules for the world as it stood. "There's got to be somebody out there that's qualified. Somewhere."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

It's October as I post this, a very busy month for me typically, as a prop-and-costume maker. It's been even busier than usual with everything that's been going on in my personal life (business selling, house buying, etc.), so updates might be a little patchy till Halloween-month is over. I've got a bunch of stuff written for this fic, as well as for the Asylum-based one I've got going. I've got another couple of things too that I'm itching to share once things have settled down here. So keep your eyes peeled!

Next time: Michael gets what he wants! Or does he?


	50. E7 Chapter 3 - Rebirth

((Suggested music: _Seven Devils_ by Florence and the Machine))

The coven's return to the hotel was chaotic: There was a flurry of motion as the bodies of the two dead women were brought in, and more commotion when Parker saw Dawn's condition and started freaking out. Troy managed to block the skinnier guy from getting to his friend's battered corpse, but Alec finally had to physically pull him away from the group. Parker's anguished cries echoed through the halls after them as they carried the sacrificial witches to the roof.

The roof was made of concrete and up above the reach of the predatory creatures that roamed in the fog. The group quickly threw together a pyre from broken-up wooden shipping pallets and torn up cardboard boxes. Michael insisted on a change of clothes before the actual ritual. He was filthy and disheveled and wanted to be properly presented for the ritual, even if it was a hasty one.

Being that it was a special occasion, he chose a black watered silk shirt and his cape-sleeve crepe topcoat. Black velvet pants and black leather ankle boots with sharp pin-box toes made him look and feel darkly majestic. He pulled his blond hair back into a ponytail that he fixed with a long strip of thin black leather, wrapped around and around, like a noose. He fastened it that way with a small loop, liking the effect. He eyed his reflection in the bathroom mirror critically then decided to smudge on some black eyeliner as well. The smoky effect added drama to his dark eyes, though his mood accomplished that well enough on its own.

Once he approved of his reflection, he rejoined the others on the roof. Pieter, Meg, and Tisi were all there, and he was pleased to see that they too had cleaned up some. Azalea, the plump curly-haired witch, had joined them; Michael didn't see Cordelia or Desiree. Troy was there though, and Fiona was perched nearby, still in raven form.

"We're ready," Michael said confidently as he approached the pyre.

The bodies of the dead women were laid atop the tinder with obvious respect, their hands folded over their middles and bodies aligned. The others formed a circle around the pile, with Michael at the apex near the heads of the deceased. Troy and Fiona stayed back, watching.

Michael considered saying something pithy or ominous, but as much as he enjoyed ritual and performance, he really did want to get on with things. So he focused his thoughts on the broken up debris in front of him. The fire touched off easier than striking a match. He barely even thought about the dry, flammable nature of the wood and it was ablaze. In seconds, the supernaturally hot flames devoured the wood and cardboard. The bodies went next, sizzling and smoking with the sudden and intense heat. It smelled a lot like bacon.

Michael's brow furrowed as he concentrated on what he desired. He could feel an odd sense of mild resistance to his thoughts, unseen but similar to pushing on the skin of stove-cooked pudding. Then the barrier burst. The air quivered, sending a strange shudder through all present. The smoke from the fire intensified, growing so thick and white that it completely obscured everyone's vision for several seconds.

When the smoke cleared, the fire was out. The only thing left of the pyre were two blackened forms that hardly even resembled bodies. Not at all what Michael expected to see. He was on the verge of full nuclear rage when one of the charred corpses wobbled.

"What the—" Azalea mumbled, disgusted by the sight.

The right arm cracked and fell into meaty black chunks, exposing peachy whole skin.

"She's alive!" Tisi gasped.

"No," Michael said. He stepped into the charcoal remains of the pyre and assessed the body. "The person inside her is."

He bent then and started ripping chunks of the barbecued witch off of the person who was just beneath the carbonized flesh. The person inside was moving more and trying to make noise. The other body was starting to do the same thing.

"Break open the other one!" Michael barked, because the others were still just standing there.

Troy sprang into action first, breaking apart the other witch's body as quickly as he could without hurting the person just beneath the second skin. Soon they were all helping, all except Fiona, who used her condition as an inarguable excuse to sit out of the grunt work.

Michael ripped the outer meat shell from the face of the person he held and was relieved to see it was Evangelina. He resisted the impulse to hug her. She still had a lot of dead body encasing her. A glance over saw that Troy had successfully gotten the burned head off of Jeremiah. Both individuals were alive and breathing, awake but not the least bit alert or coherent. It was like they were sedated.

Meg tore a large section of abdomen away, exposing Evangelina's bare, pale belly. Michael's hand settled on the soft, warm skin. In the short amount of time she'd been gone, her middle had grown drastically. She looked like she was closer to six months along, not a few weeks. Then Michael noticed something even more disturbing: Instead of one life force, he could sense two in her womb.

A strange, cold feeling washed over Michael's insides. It was like anger only anger, for him, was hot. This feeling was colder than ice. Forgetting everything else, he tried to identify his fetus by its energy signature, but they were identical. And yet he knew beyond doubt that one was absolutely not his offspring.

One of them was the Dragon's child.

—

An hour later, Michael sat brooding at the hotel bar. Evangelina and Jeremiah had been bathed and put to bed in individual rooms, with someone to sit with them in case they woke. Most everyone else did the sensible thing and went to bed. Those that could sleep, did. Those that couldn't found other more carnal ways to pass the time.

Michael sat and sipped bourbon and tried to decide what to do.

The presence of another baby alongside his bothered him to no end but there wasn't an easy solution to the problem. He had no idea which of the twins was his or he would simply eradicate the interloper. It also bothered him that his supposed father put the parasite in there.

"Some father," he muttered into his glass and followed the complaint with a large belt of bourbon. He slammed the near-empty tumbler down on the bar.

Some father, indeed. Whatever Lucifer was to Michael, he was nothing like the human concept of a paternal figure. By that definition, he should be here now, telling Michael what he needed to know in order to become a successful leader of men. Instead, the fallen angel was impregnating his son's chosen mate behind his back and expecting him to just deal with it. He wasn't even accessible to yell at about it.

Michael rubbed his eyes, mashing the heels of his palms into them. He wanted to rail against the idea that a celestial being should behave like trailer trash, but Jeremiah's lessons haunted him. The very reason many of the angels fell in the first place was because they couldn't keep their dicks under their robes. Impregnating mortal women was the first of their sins but hardly the worst. Michael's own conception had been a parasitical pregnancy, something he had come to understand over the years but had never fully appreciated until now.

"Tough night?"

The unfamiliar male voice snapped Michael out of his dark thoughts. Across the bar from him, a man in an old-timey bartender's vest stood wiping down a brandy snifter. He had a waxed handlebar mustache and a warm expression. Michael knew just looking at him that he was a ghost.

"Who are you?"

The bartender's smile tugged his mustache. "Joe. Smilin' Joe is what they used to call me, but nobody's called me in so long…"

"What are you doing here?" Michael pressed. "Why haven't I seen you here before?"

Joe shrugged and put the glass away. "Guess we just haven't crossed paths. Can I get you a refill?"

Michael looked at his empty glass. "Sure," he decided. "Bourbon. Neat."

"A man after my own heart," Smilin' Joe smiled. He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of Black Maple Hill. "So what's got a guy like you stewing in a place like this, at so late an hour?"

Michael watched the amber fluid fill the glass, finding it soothing to watch it flow. He thought about how to answer the question and said with a sarcastic twist of a smile: "Woman troubles."

Joe's expression shifted to immediate understanding. "Say no more, friend, say no more! Man's eternal curse is the so-called fairer sex."

Despite his mood, Michael found himself warming to the anachronistic bartender. "And yet we want them so much. Why is that?"

"I don't know for sure," said Smilin' Joe. "But I think it's because our balls are hardwired to our brains."

Michael laughed, caught off guard by the answer. "Yeah, maybe."

He had a sip from his glass and was surprised by the smooth richness of the liquor. He'd had bourbon many times before; it was one of Mother Constance's favorite alcohols. But she never kept $200 bottles around the house.

"So tell me about yourself, Joe," Michael said, both because he was curious about this spirit he hadn't met before and because he wanted the guy to talk some so he could enjoy the bourbon.

Smilin' Joe grabbed a damp rag and started wiping down the bar. "Not much to tell, really."

"How did you die?" Michael prompted bluntly.

The man's easy demeanor cooled a touch and he looked uncomfortable. He took his time swabbing the bar top before finally saying: "Woman troubles."

Michael snorted a soft laugh. "Right." He lifted his glass. "To women. The worst addiction known to man."

…

* * *

Author's Note:

It being nearly Halloween RL, I couldn't resist dipping into a couple of my favorite stories for inspiration. _Ghostbusters_ influenced the first portion of this chapter, I'll admit, and the second was an homage to the bar scenes in Stephen King's _The Shining_. Warner Brothers is releasing _Doctor Sleep_ this year, the official sequel to the original story, so it's been on my mind a lot lately. Michael's no Jack, though. He's a lot scarier than Jack when he gets worked up.

He's also having a hard time with the reality of having Satan for a dad. It seemed pretty cool up till now. Being the Devil's son ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Coming up: Michael finds ways to express his growing anger. Not _good_ ways, but ways.


	51. E7 Chapter 4 - Land of the Living

The full moon shone brightly through the dusty glass window pane, bathing Jeremiah's bare body in bluish-gray light. The last two hours were a muddy blur and he wasn't sure where he was until he left the unfamiliar bed and looked outside. The fog covered the city, but he recognized the street below, what he could see of it.

He remembered Nox. Before that, he remembered dying. He remembered clearly how it felt to slip free of the corporeal form that weighed him down now. He also had slivers of unfamiliar memories, ones that his animated corpse made while his soul was in the Underworld. His body felt foreign to him now; awkward and filthy in ways he couldn't define. The coppery-dusty scent of his own skin made his stomach churn. Running both hands through his hair, he could feel the oil and scalp flakes on the strands and that bothered him too.

Taking a shower helped a little but not enough to set him at ease. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he left the small bathroom to search the room's drawers and closet for something to wear. The only thing he found was an old Bible. Suddenly furious, he grabbed the book and lobbed it across the room, as hard as he could. It smacked the far wall and fell to the floor, parchment pages fluttering.

The door to the hall opened and Troy put his head into the room. "Hey. You're awake."

Jeremiah looked at the stranger. "Could I get some clothes? Please?"

"Oh! Yeah. Sure. One sec."

The young man disappeared, shutting the door behind him. A few moments later, there was a soft knock and the door opened again. Troy came in, carrying something black.

"Here. I found you this," Troy said, shaking out a satin robe.

Jeremiah stared at it. "That's a ladies' bathrobe."

Troy squinted at it and tried to make it seem wider by spreading the shiny fabric. "Maybe. But it's long enough. See?"

Jeremiah took the garment with a silent but disgruntled look. He put on the robe and belted it around his waist. It came down to his calves and looked like a dress on him. He favored the younger man an even more sour look as he tugged the towel out from under the robe.

"It's the first thing I found," Troy defended. "I figured you'd want it more than you wanted to be naked."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes and decided not to dignify the explanation with a response. He just left the room to go find himself something more appropriate to wear.

"Hey!" Troy called after him. "Wait. I don't think you're supposed to leave your room."

"Well, I am," said Jeremiah without looking back.

The younger man followed him out into the hall. He had been stationed there to keep watch over both Jeremiah and Evangelina, who were in neighboring rooms. Troy wasn't sure whether to follow the man in the bathrobe or stay put in case the woman woke too.

"Stop," Troy persisted, following him a few steps before stopping again. "Michael's already pissed about Evangelina. Would you just…not go? Come on, man."

Jeremiah paused as well and turned back toward the dark-haired pest. "No. I'm going home, where my clothes are. If Michael wants me, he knows where to find me."

He started away again and ran right into Michael, quite literally. His appearance was so sudden and the collision so unexpected that Jeremiah stumbled back in surprise.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," smiled Michael. The expression sat on his lips only. His eyes were intense. The odd expression flickered briefly as he took in what the man was wearing.

Recovering, Jeremiah tugged the robe straight and belted it in place again. "Thank you," he said stiffly. "Now if you'll excuse me…"

"Leaving us so soon? But you only just got here." Michael's words were genial. Too friendly. His smile had a razor's edge.

"Yes, Michael. I'm leaving," the older man said in a tone he hadn't used in over a decade. "I'm going home."

He side-stepped his former ward. It was enough to send Michael's precarious mood over the edge. He grabbed Jeremiah's shoulder firmly.

"I didn't give you permission to go."

"I wasn't asking," Jeremiah said. His words were low but vehement; he grabbed the hand that held him and shoved.

In entirely uncharted waters emotionally, Michael just stared at him for a moment, and a dark look passed between them. Then all hell broke loose.

Michael's features distorted, portraying a burst of inhuman rage. His bones cracked and twisted as he lunged at Jeremiah and his muscles gained mass at a frightening rate. A pair of big black leathery bat wings shot out from his back just as he took a swipe at his former mentor with a hand that had sprouted deadly claws.

Jeremiah tried to dodge and was grazed along the shoulder blade. The razor-sharp claws sliced right through his robe and into his skin, making him cry out. The pain was excruciating; worse than any man-made tool could inflict.

There was no point in holding back now or preserving illusion. Jeremiah let his true form show, unfolding feathered wings of shadow in a buffeting move that sent a bone-jarring shock wave down the hall and into Michael even as he was pulling back for another strike. The attack caught the Antichrist by surprise and knocked him back against the wall. The blast hit Troy too; he slumped to the floor, unconscious, outside of Evangelina's door.

Jeremiah closed in immediately, pinning Michael against the wall with one forearm across his throat. His eyes were solid black, his expression deadly serious. Michael would have to do something drastic to break free.

"Don't," Jeremiah growled really close to his ear. Sweat dripped from the ex-priest's jaw onto the younger man's cheek, he was so close. "Just let it go, Michael."

They were locked like that for several seconds while Michael weighed whether he wanted to extinguish the man, teach him a lesson, or let him win. There was only the tiniest of concerns that Jeremiah might actually be a threat to him. It was their history and potential future that weighed in most on the decision. He had gone to a lot of trouble to bring the man back from the Underworld. He wasn't ready to send him back yet. He wouldn't concede the fight, however. He just favored Jeremiah a silent, superior look.

Jeremiah finally eased off when it was safe to believe Michael wasn't going to press the fight. He folded his wings back into nothing and straightened his borrowed robe. Eyes clearing, he swept his former charge with a long look. The young man was quite a sight when his celestial lineage was visible. Beautiful and terrible to behold.

"When you're ready to actually _talk_ to me, instead of this…this bullshit," Jeremiah said. "Come to the house." Then he left.

Michael let him go this time. Then he noticed Troy slumped in a heap on the floor. He knew the False Prophet wasn't dead; his life signs were stable despite the fact that the psychic blow had knocked him out. Shifting back to his human aspect, Michael looked down at the sprawled person.

"Sleeping on the job," he chided. "Some people have no work ethic."

He made a scooping motion with his left hand and swept Troy into the chair the young man had been using before everything went nuts. Hall tidied, Michael shifted himself upstairs to have a shower and review his brawl with Jeremiah. It was by far the most excitement he'd experienced in a while. Cathartic. Coming down from the urge to kill made him horny but he didn't feel like sharing the moment with anyone, so he masturbated a good portion of the hotel's hot water reserve away satisfying the urge.

…

Evangelina dreamt she was being chased around a mall parking lot by shadow people who wanted to steal her teeth with rusty pliers. She was sure they would hurt the baby she carried in her arms, so she was desperately trying to figure out how to fly when a strange sensation in her middle woke her.

The room was dark. Silvery moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains that covered the room's only window. The place had a distinct smell of age and hotel and the people who had taken the place over. She was back at the Bradford. Shifting under the covers, she discovered she was naked, and she really needed to pee.

Gathering a sheet to wrap around herself, she went to the room's small bathroom. When she dropped the sheet so she could do her business, the size of her belly made her pause. She looked like she was over six months along. Red stretch marks scarred her sides, evidence of the rapid growth. She ran her hands over the firm mound and felt something move under the skin. It was a slippery, ticklish sensation that nothing moving through her digestive tract had ever felt like. There was a flutter and a stir on the other side too and she felt something inside her turn completely over.

"Hello," she said softly to her belly.

She tried to imagine what her baby looked like. She had never seen pictures of a fetus in utero; her education hadn't included such insights. So the woman fancied the infant was a fully developed thing, just incredibly small. A palm-sized baby just for her.

Once she'd finished on the toilet and washed her hands and face, Evangelina fixed her sheet into a toga the Greeks would consider appropriate attire. When she left the bathroom, she caught sight of herself in the room's narrow full-length mirror and was surprised at how flattering the makeshift look was on her pregnant form. She took one of the tasseled tie-backs from the curtains and fixed it around her waist, in the valley between her baby bump and breasts. It was an anachronistic look, but prettier than anything she had worn back at the compound.

She studied her reflection in the moonlight. Her pale hair fell straight down her back like a cape to the white sheet toga she'd fashioned. She took handfuls of it and twisted until she had an artful crown of hair rolled up, a look that she liked. If she had some sort of clip she could pin it that way; make her face visible to the world.

She decided she never wanted to cover herself in cloaks and hoods again.

—

The hotel hall stretched in either direction, the dim amber lighting glowing on the wood paneled walls. Evangelina paused and listened. She could hear the distant thrum of machinery and the electric buzz of the lights. She didn't hear any voices. It felt late; perhaps they were all asleep. Troy was: He was sleeping in a chair next to the room she'd been in. She passed him quietly and headed downstairs in search of food. It was her plan to head to the hotel kitchen but as she came down the wide main flight, she saw Michael at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her.

He was dressed only in a pair of clingy black velvet pants. His long blond hair fell loose around his shoulders, damp from a recent shower. He was so beautiful that she faltered a step and almost fell down the stairs. She caught hold of the hand rail and steadied herself. Seeing her wobble, Michael came up to meet her and put an arm around her lower back, to assist her the rest of the way down.

"You should be resting," he told her.

"We got hungry," she smiled self-consciously.

Michael looked down at the bump in the toga she'd made for herself. Then he put a hand over it. He could sense the twins were healthy and alert. The one nearest his hand moved and he could feel the faint wriggle beneath his fingers. He was surprised at how amazing that little flutter felt.

"He moved," Michael observed in awe.

Evangelina smiled, touched by his reaction. "He's saying hello."

In that moment, Michael wanted that baby to be his. The urge spoiled the moment entirely because it reminded him that one of the babies wasn't his. He moved his hand away again and escorted Evangelina to the nearest settee. His sudden mood change confused her, but she let herself be led and she sat in one of the low white-upholstered chairs.

"I'll wake someone to make you a meal," he told her. "What do you want?"

"You don't have to do that," she demurred. "I can make it myself."

"Nonsense," Michael dismissed. "Until the twins are born, I want you resting."

"Twins?"

There was an awkward silence, then Michael took a seat on the arm of the chair next to hers. "You're having twins." He paused, then added: "But only one of them is mine."

She frowned in confusion. "I don't understand…"

He didn't want to spell it out, but he could tell she genuinely wasn't following him. "You're carrying a parasite that my Unholy Father planted in you."

Evangelina shrank into herself, disliking the ugly words he used to describe her condition. She could feel tears burning her eyes and sinuses and she blinked a few times to stop the reaction. "But how..?"

"When he took you!" Michael exclaimed, on his feet again. He moved several paces away to put some distance between them. His temper was on edge and he didn't want to accidentally hurt or kill her. "You should know! You were there!"

She knew he was mad at her, but she didn't know why or what to do to calm him down. She barely understood what he was implying. "I…don't. I don't remember."

That irritated him because he could sense she was telling the truth. If she didn't remember what she did, punishing her wouldn't have the desired effect. He wasn't sure what effect he wanted to have anyway or why he was so upset in the first place. He didn't really care why. He just wanted to do something with all the hostile energy he was carrying around.

"Of course you don't remember," he agreed, forcing himself to appear calmer than he felt. "It's not your fault. You weren't even His intended. That honor should have been Mother Constance's."

His ire surged again, finding a viable target in his dead grandmother. It was her fault everything got messed up. If she hadn't gone and killed herself, things would have been completely different. He quickly roped his feelings up. He could unleash on the right individual at the right time. At present, he needed to tend to the mother of his unborn child.

"I'm sorry," Evangelina said, at a loss as to what to say.

He surprised her again by smiling and taking her hand gently. "There's nothing for you to be sorry for. You've been perfect." He meant that, too. So far, she had done everything he wanted her to, when he wanted. Everyone should be so accommodating. "Except that you haven't told me what you want to eat."

…

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm posting this a bit ahead of schedule because I'll be out of town this weekend and I'm super busy for Halloween (which is in a little over a week at the time of this writing). Better early than late, right?

Next: The spotlight's staying mostly on Michael as he heads back to Murder House to confront Constance. Langdon talks never go well in that house.


	52. E7 Chapter 5 - Family Planning

Desiree was the unlucky one Michael woke in the wee hours to make a meal for Evangelina. It was a peculiar order but no worse than many of the odd meals that were prepared in the old kitchen these days. Evangelina wanted raw lamb steak, warmed to body temperate without cooking the flesh, and milk mixed with honey. Michael's own strange dietary requirements meant they kept meat, blood, innards, and even live sheep on the property so filling the request wasn't difficult; just messy.

Desiree served the bloody chunks in a white ceramic bowl, swimming in a gravy of warmed blood. The red contrasted darkly with the white, looking black in the thickest parts. Her maman used to eat a similar "stew" when she consulted with the loa, voodoo spirits that once spoke to Desiree, too. She hadn't seen one since she joined the coven. She didn't particularly miss them, either. She'd met Baron Cimitière once, in St. Louis #2, and was shocked when he tried to molest her after she'd summoned him in a ritual using rum and a fine cigar she purchased herself from the tobacconist.

Everything she'd read about that incarnation of the Loa of the Dead said he was the polite one, the healer and wizard. Oh, he'd looked the gentleman, in his purple velvet suit and fancy top hat. He spoke smooth and sophisticated. But those hands of his! He was a magician, all right. He'd distract her with grand gestures using one hand while the other was trying to settle on her posterior. He baited her with promises of good fortune and power even as his fingers were tracing the outline of her bra clasp beneath her sweater. She'd had less handsy third dates. But she managed to leave the encounter with her virtue intact—and she was wiser about trafficking with spirits.

It was already dawn by the time Desiree finished delivering Evangelina's visceral breakfast. The mulatto witch was too alert to go back to bed, so she started prepping food for the basement prisoners.

She had become their keeper of sorts as no one else cared whether they were fed. She had been told Kyle didn't need food to survive but he ate when she brought food, so she kept bringing it. Zoe definitely needed to eat, so it was her needs Desiree tailored the meals to. The succubus' diet mainly consisted of meat, apples, and water, and liquor when Desiree could sneak it down.

Over the days, she had gotten closer to both of the prisoners. Though Kyle was still sullen and Zoe often tried to prey on her emotions in order to get her to release them, she couldn't blame either of them. Privately, she wished she could let them go. Nobody was using them for anything or even talking about them. The fact was, nobody cared. They were Fiona's prisoners and she was dealing with more important things.

Desiree had given up trying to talk to anyone about it after Pietre made her feel stupid for even asking about them. Instead, she thought about how she could free them without anyone catching on. The problem was two-fold: Zoe and Kyle were locked in cages Fiona had enchanted herself, and both were wearing collars that were cursed by Pietre. Desiree wasn't strong enough to break either of the spells by herself and neither of the captives could help, thanks to the effects of the collars.

She had been working on something she thought of as a magic mirror spell, something she hoped would allow her to open a portal she could pull them through. So far, though, she'd only managed to spy on the prisoners from a distance. Reaching through to touch what she saw was proving much harder to do on her own. She suspected it would be easier if she had a couple of other witches to help her but there wasn't anyone she could ask.

It was mostly fantasy anyway. She didn't want to anger Fiona or risk bringing Michael's dark attention her way. Plotting ways to help her basement friends escape was a hobby she didn't seriously think would ever pan out. Still, she practiced in secret, using the antique hand mirror she'd found on a vanity in one of the hotel's rooms. And she wondered.

She couldn't help wondering if Maitre Carrefour could break the black magic that trapped the pair. The loa was a no-nonsense creature who was reputed to be able to break curses, hexes, and spells. He was also known as a spirit one didn't approach lightly. He earned his title of Master of Evil Spirits for a reason. Guardian of the crossroads, he was uncompromising and demanding. Not a loa most approached without the assistance of an houngan or mambo.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that he could help. What she wasn't so sure about was whether it was worth the price. Not only would she risk the wrath of the coven and the Antichrist, she would be seeking the direct attention of a being far more potent and intimidating than Baron Cimitière, and she would need to ask him for a favor. Just the thought of it made her heart race in an unpleasant way.

So, she kept practicing with the hand mirror and hoping an alternative would present itself.

...

(( _Music that I played while writing this and a lot of this season can be found on YouTube under the title "_ Arkham Horror: 1 Hour of H.P. Lovecraft Music for Board Games and Role-playing" _by Graham Plowman. Highly recommended for ambiance._ ))

Evening light shone red through the fog that hugged the Montgomery Mansion. The clatter of wing feathers heralded the arrival of a flock of black birds that settled on the eaves of the roof and in the branches of the old tree in the front yard. A lone bird came in last, eschewing a perch and instead coming down at angle to meet the sidewalk at a break-neck pace.

Far from suicidal, the large raven blurred just before it hit the ground, solidifying into Michael's impeccably dressed form. He dropped immediately into an easy stride, having no trouble adjusting to the shift. All it had taken was witnessing Aunt Fiona's transformation to get him wondering if he could do it. Wondering had opened the door and he found he was quite a natural at shifting into that form and back.

He strode up to the door opened it with a negligent wave of his hand. He crossed the threshold just as the sun's last light faded from the mist.

He was home.

The place smelled and felt like a piece of his childhood. He had spent more time next door living with Mother Constance, but this place had always felt like home to him, from the moment he set foot in it when he was little. His earliest memories of the place were tinted with fear but more than that he remembered the good times, back when Thaddeus and Ethan played with him.

But Michael wasn't there for nostalgia. "Mother Constance."

He smelled the smoke from her cigarette before he saw her emerge from the shadows of the hall. "Hello, sweetheart," she said. "What're you doin' here?"

Michael studied her. She had youthened herself once more and, dressed in a flowing tangerine and black kaftan, he imagined she looked like she must have when she was his age. She was quite lovely, in fact, but he was in no mood to care. He closed in on her, crowding her personal space. His height advantage forced her to look up to make eye contact since she didn't retreat from his presence.

"The Dragon put a baby in Evangelina," Michael told her. His tone was buttery smooth, devoid of true feeling. "That baby should have been in you." He tipped his head but didn't blink. "That's what the prophecy said. Isn't it?"

Constance hugged her middle with one arm, unsettled by his demeanor. Despite his outward calm, to her he seemed coiled; ready to strike. "Prophecies aren't iron-clad. Obviously." She hit her cigarette and exhaled slowly, arching a brow at him as she did.

"It should have been yours," Michael reiterated in that too-gentle tone. "That baby doesn't belong in her."

"Well, it doesn't belong in me!" she snapped, turning away.

Michael didn't allow her the luxury of retreat. He shifted through space, appearing right in front of her again. "If anything happens to my baby, you're the one I'll blame."

She sucked on her cigarette again to hide her surprise at his protectiveness over the unborn child. "I don't know what you think will happen. You turned out just fine."

Michael wasn't sure if that was intended as a dig or not. "My twin didn't. Or did you forget?"

Constance fluttered her hand to wave away the matter. Smoke danced in the air. "I was busy with you while he was bein' born. _Someone_ had to take care of you! God knows none of the others there knew the first thing about handling an infant except your mother, and she—"

"—was dying because of me," Michael finished sharply. Hot tears slipped down his cheeks, but his expression didn't change.

Constance pressed her lips together briefly. The whole subject was one she would rather not think about. Ever. "It wasn't your fault, sweetheart," she said gently.

She reached for him, but Michael dodged her touch. He didn't want to be soothed. "I killed my mother. And I killed my brother. I wasn't supposed to be there."

"They died when you were born. But it was the house—"

"It wasn't the house, Mother Constance," he said with grim certainty. "My father killed them. My _real_ father. And now he's going to kill Evangelina and my baby." He turned away from her then and shoved his thumbs in his pockets. "I can't tell them apart inside her. The babies. I can't tell them apart."

"You grew faster in the womb," Constance said, trying to placate him. "They saw it on the ultrasound. Whichever infant grows faster, that one isn't yours."

Michael bowed his head and stared at the hardwood floor for several silent seconds. Then he said quietly but firmly: "I'm bringing her here. She's started to get sick from not being here because of the parasite. She'll rest here and when His child starts to grow…I'll get rid of it."

The dire words sent a dark chill through Constance. "Michael. Honey. I think you should give this more thought. You're talkin' about the offspring of a—"

"I don't care," Michael interrupted. He looked back over a shoulder at her and said simply: "I'm not going to let him kill my baby."

His outline blurred and suddenly he was right in front of her again, grabbing her wrists. She dropped her cigarette.

"You're hurting me!" she protested. She tried to phase out but couldn't escape his hold, despite having no physical form.

" _You're_ the reason this is happening," he said. His expression was still neutral, and his words quiet, but there was a sinister edge to them; poison dripping from serpent's fangs. "You have one chance to make this right, Mother Constance. If my baby dies or even comes out with so much as a sniffle… _you'll_ suffer for it. I know your secrets and I won't hesitate," he squeezed her harder to emphasize his point. "To tear you open from the inside if you've fucked this up."

He smiled then and let go of her. He even reached up and smoothed a lock of her hair that had fallen from her updo. He studied her shaken demeanor then nodded, satisfied he was understood.

"When Evangelina arrives, make sure she has the master bedroom to herself," he said, tone deceptively pleasant. "And have the Warwicks fix up the nursery. They're so good at that sort of thing."

—

* * *

Author's Note:

Happy Halloween! That's the date of this posting, anyway. So I thought I'd serve up an extra-large chapter with some voodoo spice as a treat, to celebrate.

So, if I've learned nothing since I first start watching American Horror Story and writing the fanfic, it's that history loves to repeat itself in the series. Sometimes it does it over a stretch of a long period, with decades and even centuries between similar occurrences. Sometimes, it's just a few months. It's been 20 years since the house has had twins...

Next time: Michael moves Evangelina into Murder House. It's always so nice when someone new moves in. Until it isn't.


	53. E7 Chapter 6 - Mothers of Dragons

Michael thought about heading directly into town after speaking with Mother Constance but in the end he went next door. He still considered that property his home too and let himself in without announcement. He needed none; Jeremiah was sitting on the stairs, a tumbler of scotch on the step next to his hip. He was dressed in a black high-collar shirt with long sleeves, and a pair of black pants. His feet were bare despite the fact that the house wasn't heated at the moment.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," Jeremiah admitted. He lifted his glass for a slow sip. He didn't blink.

"I was in the neighborhood," responded Michael lightly. He pushed the door shut with his mind. It clicked softly behind him.

The older man lowered his glass, keeping it in his hand for the time being. The silence between them stretched thin before he finally said: "Why did you bring me back?"

Michael tipped his head slightly, caught between amusement and irritation at the question. "Why? What a thing to ask."

Jeremiah's brows went up.

Michael looked him up and down. In the dark house, his skin looked blue. Frozen. His aura was a shadow. "It wasn't your time yet. You still have work to do."

The ex-priest shut his eyes. Michael could sense pain radiating out from him. It was strange to have such power over a person. People were so frail, physically and mentally, it was almost impossible not to injure them. It was fascinating, if inconvenient.

"Why does that hurt you?" he prodded, moving to the foot of the stairs. Jeremiah was seated five up from the bottom, putting him just a little higher than Michael.

Jeremiah opened his eyes and looked at his former charge. "Why does it matter?"

Michael gave an exaggerated sigh. "I hate when you do that: Answer questions with questions."

"Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

After brief consideration, Michael said: "It matters because I don't understand why having a purpose causes you pain. Would you rather be dead?"

Jeremiah had to check his knee-jerk reaction. "I've had a purpose my whole existence. That won't change whether I'm dead or alive."

"That doesn't answer my question. Either of them."

"Fine," Jeremiah said, beginning to feel the scotch kick in and his patience slip at once. "It hurts, Michael, because after everything, I would have thought I meant more to you than just another one of your pawns. The jury's still out on whether I'd rather be dead or not."

He downed the last of his drink and set the glass down hard enough to crack the edge. Michael looked at it then at him. After a moment's hesitation, he moved to sit beside him on the stairs.

"You're not a pawn," he said sincerely. "A piece, maybe."

Jeremiah side-eyed him but Michael's expression was inscrutable.

"I shouldn't have let you die," the younger man went on. "That was a mistake."

Jeremiah could hear the apology implicit in the statement, even if it was missing from the actual words. "All things for a reason," he said, which was more or less his acceptance of the unspoken apology. He _had_ learned a lot that he didn't regret from his stint in the Underworld.

"Will you come to the mansion?" Michael asked.

"We'll see."

"Evangelina will need someone living to look after her."

"Won't you be there?"

Michael shrugged and lit a clove cigarette. The black paper and oil-soaked tobacco perfumed the air. "When I can be. There are a lot of things I need to do and some people I need to…collect. People who are doing things they shouldn't be. Some have stolen from me. Others are going to. It's very disappointing." His tone was bland; he wasn't actually upset about any of it. The bad people were easy enough to take care of. They were just another inconvenient little chore. "Tate will help you."

Jeremiah looked less than thrilled. "I really don't need his assistance."

"It'll make things easier," Michael assured.

"That I doubt."

"He's not a child, you know. He just appeared as one to spend time with me when I was a child myself."

"I liked him better that way." Normally Jeremiah wouldn't share such a blunt opinion, but his self-imposed barriers were at an all-time low. "The older he appears, the more trouble he causes."

Michael tipped his head and smiled. "All right. I'll tell him to be a child around you."

That wasn't what Jeremiah had been driving at and almost said as much but he hesitated. If he was going to have Tate as an unwanted assistant, having him in his least destructive form would be best. "We'll see if that works."

…

"He wants us to fix up the nursery for him," Chad repeated slowly.

He, Pat, and Constance were all in the kitchen, positioned in a triangle about the central island. Constance had her hands braced on the marble counter top, arms spread like a tripod to help her dominate the conversation. Chad ignored the posturing; Patrick was likewise unimpressed.

"God knows why," the blonde woman dismissed. "After what you tried to do to the room when he was a baby…Red cribs? Jesus H. Christ."

"Red was very _en vogue_ that year," Chad said starchily. "Neutral naturals would be a far better choice today, of course. Timeless."

Pat caught the glance Chad threw his way and nodded in agreement. "Nothing says _Apocalypse: Now_ parenting like a pastel military pallet."

Constance rolled her eyes. She knew when she was being mocked. "You homos do whatever you want. It's out of my hands."

She put those hands up in the air at that and quit the kitchen, and the conversation. She had no interest in hearing whatever real ideas they had for perverting future generations with their ideas of style and family values. Why her grandson even tolerated them would forever be beyond her understanding. She resented the influence they'd had on her son and she didn't intend to let them near her great-grandchildren.

Finding Tate was simple enough: He wasn't hiding from her, for once. He was in the downstairs bathroom with the door wide open, staring into the mirror. As she came up behind him, he shrank down, de-aging until he looked roughly eight years old. The sight hurt her heart. He was so beautiful and perfect at that age, so full of vitality and promises not yet broken.

His eyes were still haunted when he lifted them, shifting his attention from himself to the reflection of the woman standing in the shadows behind him. No matter how much time passed, there was always a little darkness in his eyes; the scar of several lifetimes of horrors witnessed. He was about the age he currently appeared, back when they had to move out of the mansion when he was a child.

"It'll be nice to have a baby in the house again," she commented, mostly because she couldn't say what she really wanted to. She stepped closer to him and smoothed his hair back from his face. "It's been too long since these walls held new life."

"I hope it doesn't scream like Dr. Harmon's baby," Tate opined.

"Don't say such things," Constance admonished sternly. "Don't forget who helped put that baby in that state."

Tate pouted in the mirror, stung by the indirect jab. "I just meant I hope it doesn't cry all the time."

"There'll be two of them," his mother said, attempting again to smooth his unruly hair. "Twice the effort, twice the reward."

"Twice the noise," added Tate. "I don't know why you and Mrs. Nora like babies so much. They're noisy shit-factories."

"Babies are sweet and innocent. Nothin' is as pure as the trust and love of an infant." Constance draped her arms over his shoulders from behind and drew him close, even though he made a face that was supposed to let her know he didn't want to be touched. "And nothin' is as strong as a mother's love for her child—or as dangerous."

The little boy in the mirror looked up at his mother's reflection. The shadows of the room crept in around the edges, blacking out the rest of the world. With the darkness came a whispering rustle of spectral voices only the two of them could hear. Tate's expression relaxed into a blank-eyed stare as he listened to the whispers, whispers that told them both what to do.

…

Hazy sunlight filtered in through the bare window onto the floor, showing about ten years of accumulated dust. A large cobweb hung over an equally dust-coated dresser. Despite the room's condition, being back in the old nursery brought on a case of nostalgia for both of the Warwicks. It was one of the rooms that had sold them on the old mansion back when they were alive. The room, and the promise of a family together. Back when they foolishly believed they could live happily ever after.

"Where the hell are we going to get new cribs?" Chad marveled in disgust, breaking the moody silence at last. He refused to let this turn into another reason to weep uncontrollably. "Do you think someone at the market makes them? Maybe there are still some at the custom oak shop down in the art district..? Or would looters have gotten them all?"

Pat favored him a funny look. "I could be wrong but I'm going to guess there has never been a run on hand-crafted oak nursery sets."

"We should start there," Chad decided. Then: "Shit! We'll need a truck since there's no God-damned delivery. You know, Michael really should lend us some minions if he wants this done right."

"Let's just use the old ones," Patrick suggested. He didn't relish the idea of hauling furniture much more than Chad did. And he had no interest in searching through a dusty, dark shop for two cribs that would fit his partner's fussy standards.

Chad sighed and made a martyred face. "We'll have to put them back together."

The charred pieces of the cribs were still in the furnace downstairs, where he had left them after destroying them when things went to hell with the Harmons and their twins.

"Beats dragging new stuff here," Pat pointed out sensibly. "We'll give them a fresh coat of paint afterward. It'll be fun."

"All right," Chad conceded. "I'll get the spindle one. You get the other one."

They both focused and the broken, burned cribs appeared in the nursery, whole and in the state they'd been in when the men had first found them stored up in the attic. Reset. Unfortunately, that meant they were covered in dust and in sore need of a sanding.

"Well, let's grab the tools," said Chad. "And I know you were just joking but I'm starting to like the idea of military pastels…"

...

(( _Song: Close to You – The Carpenters_ ))

The house was ready when Michael brought Evangelina to stay. Despite the chilly weather, the rosebushes were in full bloom, white blossoms showing brilliant against dark green leaves in the hazy mist. The front door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges when they stepped into the shade of the porch. They were met in the front hall by Jeremiah; Moyra was waiting at hand as well, to receive the lady's coat and luggage. In the kitchen, a steaming pot of herbal tea was nestled under a crocheted cozy, paired with a plate of fresh sugar cookies.

Tate was minding the snacks in his child guise, assuring the quality of the treats through sampling. He was finishing a third cookie when the trio entered the room. He had decided to humor them by appearing in the form Michael had requested, mostly because it gave him a nice excuse to not have to mind his manners. When they arrived, he swallowed the bite in his mouth and dusted his fingers off on the hem of his dad's sweater. It fit especially loose when he was the size of an eight-year-old, but he didn't care about his appearance. He was much more interested in how the living people looked.

Michael was dressed all in black, in the fancy pieces he preferred that made him look to Tate like an exclusive, well-paid mortician. Evangelina was his polar opposite dressed all in ivory and white. She had her hair braided like a Greek goddess, with the long end trailing down over one shoulder. Jeremiah just looked like Father Jeremiah, in the basic black pants, shirt, and coat he usually wore. He always looked the same to Tate.

"Hi," he said to the adults.

"Hello," Evangelina smiled. She had a gentle smile.

"Hello, Tate," Jeremiah greeted, the same way he always did.

Michael just stared at him. It was the first time he'd seen Tate so young in years. It was like seeing someone else entirely—not his childhood companion, Ethan, but some other child. He saw a part of himself that was stuck here, unable to grow or adapt, perpetually vulnerable. He saw in Tate a mentally and emotionally frail version of the same thing Michael himself was striving to be. One that had no hope of improving his lot due to his weaknesses. A rogue tear ran down Michael's cheek. He ignored it.

"Despite appearances," he told Evangelina, taking her hand. "Tate is one of the strongest spirits in the house. If you need anything, call on him."

The unexpected praise made the boy squirm. To hide the awkward feelings of pride and social discomfort, Tate grabbed another cookie. He bit off too much, but it spared him having to say anything to anyone.

"He looks like—" Evangelina started.

"He's Constance's son," Michael explained. Then, to Tate: "If she needs anything, make sure she has it. Keep her safe."

The instructions were more than just mere words: Michael laced a direct command into the statement that insured the ghost boy would be compelled to do as he was told. Tate natively had an impulse to do whatever the woman of the house wanted him to do anyway; Michael's added geas reinforced it.

"I will," Tate assured in a tone that managed to be compliant and impatient at once.

He had already heard the 'keep her safe' speech before. Michael had said that when he told Tate about the infant twins, and how one was Michael's to keep and the other one was for Mrs. Nora. Of course Tate was going to keep the woman safe.

—

When Michael left that evening, Tate expected Jeremiah to go with him, but he didn't. He and Evangelina prepared supper together, and all the while there was this awkwardness between them that had the boy fascinated. The source finally became clear when Jeremiah insisted on carrying the woman's plate to the island for her.

"I'm pregnant," she said in a dry manner. "I'm not helpless. I've never needed a man to do chores for me that I can do myself."

He set the plate of lightly seared, mostly-raw meat down on the marble surface of the island for her anyway. "I know I'm the last person you want around right now, because of our history, but it's what Michael wants."

"He wants you to check up on me now and then," Evangelina said, settling herself on a bar stool. She took up her fork and delicately skewered a bloody chunk. "I'm pretty sure he didn't tell you to be a helicopter." She poked the meat into her mouth, then said around it: "I wish you'd stop bringing up our 'history'. We were together a few days because our elders made us. That's not history. That's child abuse."

"We weren't children."

"May as well have been," she shrugged and scooped another meat chunk into her mouth. She was picking up speed, eating ravenously as the twins became aware of the fresh sustenance. "The point is: You don't owe me anything and I don't owe you anything. If the sect ever comes around again, we'll have Michael crucify the lot of them."

Jeremiah arched a brow in surprise. "You're serious."

"Damned right, I am," the woman said. She dropped the fork and resorted to eating the meat with her fingers because the utensil was slowing her down. "We should wipe that sect off the face of the earth. They're dangerous."

—

Tate followed her to the nursery after Evangelina finished eating, leaving Jeremiah to fend for himself against Moyra, who insisted on doing the dishes while flaunting her sexy form at the ex-priest. The pregnant woman was far more interesting to Tate. He watched invisible while she acquainted herself with the room.

It was cleaned up and quaint in its way, with drab pastels and antique lace adorning the mismatched cribs that dominated the center of the room. The changing table, dresser, and rocking chair were all stained a faded charcoal, with fresh ivory cushions and bedding contrasting nicely. Evangelina went over to the chair and settled in it, relieved to get her rapidly-increasing weight off her swollen feet. She ran a hand over her belly and then realized she wasn't alone.

Tate was standing a few paces away from her, watching her with open curiosity. She smiled at him.

"Hi there," she said.

"Hi," he answered. He cocked his head. "What's it like? Having a baby inside you?"

She ran her hand over her belly again. "It's strange. Especially with two. When one moves, the other one will. Sometimes, one stretches and pushes his brother. Sometimes, it feels like they're both trying to kick their way out."

Tate found the answer absolutely fascinating. Intrigued, he moved closer to the seated woman. "Can I feel?"

She moved her hand and made a motion that invited him to do just that. He hesitated then placed a hand on her round middle. She repositioned it over the area she had felt the most activity recently. Naturally, the baby didn't move immediately. It was several seconds before he shifted under Tate's palm. They baby was big enough now that when he rolled over in the womb, it could clearly be felt on the outside.

"Holy shit!" Tate chirped. "That's creepy!"

He grinned when the baby moved again, finding it bizarre and amusing at once. It was the best thing he'd discovered in decades. Evangelina found his reaction just as amusing, partly because it mirrored her own feelings when she first started to feel the twins move.

"When they first started to move," she said. "It felt like there were moths fluttering in my guts."

"Cooool," Tate breathed. He wanted the lady to tell him more stories about being pregnant, so he said: "What's it like now?"

"Crowded," she smiled. "I have to use the bathroom a lot and my stomach's upset a lot, especially when the babies kick it. My lower back's been stiff the past couple of days. Michael said I should start to feel better now that I'm here. I do feel less…I don't know. Anxious, I guess? My appetite's definitely improved."

Tate felt the baby under his hand give a strong kick. "You should name them Remus and Romulus. After the Roman guys who were raised by a wolf."

"They already have names," said Evangelina. "Gabriel and Zachariel."

Tate wrinkled his nose. "Gross," he said, since he couldn't think of a more polite way to express himself.

His blunt honesty prompted a short laugh from the pregnant woman. The baby under Tate's hand wriggled mightily.

"You could call them…Gabe and Zach. How's that?" she offered.

Tate thought about it then nodded. "Yeah. That's okay, I guess. Gabe and Zach."

He wondered which one was the one Michael was going to keep.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

Thanks for the reviews and kind words! Because of my vacation, I got extra writing done so I figured I'd thank you more by posting another big chungus of a chapter. It could probably stand a little more editing but it's getting late and I wanna get this out tonight so...please pardon any grammar or spelling errors.

So, yeah. Michael's maturity is still in short supply. He thinks he's being super mature but he's really just being a bossy, entitled rich kid. Biggest balls around, he seriously thinks he can outwit the Devil himself. Not that he'd be the first person to think such a thing. He's certainly more qualified than most. But pride tends to go before the fall in most stories. And next time, the Antichrist's pride reaches an all-time high during winter festival time. When people make sacrifices in his name, it feeds his ego.


	54. E7 Chapter 7 - Kill for Me

_(Song: I Put a Spell on You – Marilyn Manson)_

The marketplace was alive with activity that afternoon as Michael and Troy entered the square. The two young men dominated their space: People moved out of their way as they swaggered through the place. Dressed from head to toe in black, they struck quite a presence among the drab colors the common citizens wore. The young men were cleaner, too, better groomed, more attractive, more powerful. They were better than everyone and they knew it.

Once past the bottleneck at the entrance they made their way into the heart of the market where Michael's church stood. The open paved area was gruesome by day: Blood, old and new, stained the concrete in front of the church where the clergy had constructed three bulky altars. Two were small and flanked a central larger one. There was a man at one of the smaller altars actively butchering the corpse of what appeared to be a child. Smoke guttered from a fire that burned on the larger altar where the remains of another human sacrifice sizzled. The air was greasy with the smell of meat and rot. Flies buzzed in thick swarms over piles of blackened human and animal bones that had been cast aside.

It was so obscene it didn't feel real to Troy. His hand went to the mark behind his ear—the mark of the Beast. As surreal as everything seemed, this was no dream. An orphan raised with six others in a facility run by a bunch of religious folks, most of what he recalled of his childhood had to do with chores or watching PBS. And now he was clearing a path through hell's carnival alongside the Antichrist.

Michael, for his part, was unfazed by the horrific scene. More than that: He looked proud.

"It's amazing what people can do when they all pull together, isn't it?" he said to Troy.

"Amazing," Troy echoed, boggling at the understatement. "Why are you having them do this?"

"Oh, I'm not. That's the best part!" Michael smiled brightly and spread his arms, turning a half circle to encompass the square. "This was all their idea!" His smile shifted more sinister and determined. "It doesn't take much for humanity to turn on itself."

Troy looked out over the square, beyond the mess at the altars, and saw the rest of the marketplace was festively decorated with cuts of fresh pine and ribbons of red and gold. It looked almost like Christmas.

"Yule," Michael said, noticing his interest. "The clergy put up the decor. The celebration is at the end of the month, when the year ends. Something for the people to enjoy."

"Ah. I see."

"I stopped celebrating Christmas a while back," Michael explained as they skirted around the small throng of onlookers who were witnessing the human sacrifice. A few noticed Michael and Troy, and they whispered excitedly to each other. The Antichrist ignored them. "Seemed ridiculous to celebrate a holiday for my prophesied enemy. But I do enjoy that…that sense. You know? The cozy feeling of hearth and home. The Danish called it 'hygge'."

Troy wasn't sure the Danes even existed any longer, but he felt fairly confident that what they were witnessing wasn't what the Danish would define as hygge. It was amusing to hear Michael draw such a parallel though. He followed the Antichrist inside the church, away from the violent scene.

The main worship hall was decorated with more pine and ribbons, accented with sprigs of mistletoe bound in black ribbons. There were pinecones aflame, crackling in two large brass braziers on either side of the entryway. Up at the front of the small auditorium the dais featured a large wooden altar. The heavy oak altar was painted black and mostly covered by a blood-red velvet runner cloth.

"It's good for people to celebrate," Troy mused, putting an analytical frame around it. "Traditions are good for culture."

Michael went over to the largest chair that was positioned on the dais behind the altar and, with a flourish of black wool coat tails, he seated himself. His crisply pleated pants were were tucked into shiny black officer's boots, giving him a touch of an officer's air. He motioned with one hand to the chair to his right. Troy joined him, settling with less style. The same could be said of his sense of fashion: Left to borrow clothing, he made do with the most basic items the coven had on hand. Which was still fairly nice as they were all prone to peacocking.

A pair of acolytes came into the room and began lighting candles as the afternoon sun was waning. One of the individuals was male, the other female, but both wore the same rusty red head scarves and plain dark gray robes—the uniform of the clergy underlings. Both of the acolytes were bald beneath their scarves as well, another sign of their low rank in the church.

"You," Michael said to the girl. "Come here."

The young woman glanced around to be sure it was her being addressed. She had been serving the church a little over a month and the last thing she expected was to be singled out the first time she was in the room with the leader of the New World.

"Me, Sir?" she said meekly as she approached the dais.

"Yes, you," Michael laughed, entertained by her cowardice. "Come closer."

She lifted the hem of her long shapeless robe and stepped up onto the dais. She paused there but he beckoned her closer with two fingers adorned with jeweled rings. His chair was so tall, they were almost on eye level as she came over to where he sat.

"Closer," he encouraged.

When she was just inches from bumping into his knees, he reached out and took both of her hands and pulled her in closer still, between his legs. She either had to look at his face, his crotch, or else turn her attention completely away from him—and she couldn't do that. She tried to make eye contact, but his gaze was so intense, she shied away from it. Which left her looking at his lap.

"What is your name?" he said gently.

"Caroline." She was blushing.

"Caroline," he repeated, savoring the word. He could tell she was a virgin. Her smell and soul told him so. "Tell me, Caroline. Do you love me?"

Troy shifted in his seat, curious at the turn in the conversation. The girl blushed harder, nearly matching her hood. Watching the blond man make her squirm was entertaining, though it wasn't something Troy was typically inclined to do himself. But Michael did it so effortlessly, it was like watching a cat play with a blind mouse.

"Yes, of course, my Lord," she stammered.

There was a quick flurry of motion and suddenly Michael had her by the throat, her back to his chest, a short but very sharp knife in his hand pressed to her windpipe. He had pulled the black-handled weapon from the top of his boot in a practiced motion so smooth, even Troy hadn't seen it, and he was on the side the knife had been pulled from.

"Would you die for me?" Michael murmured in her ear as he tilted her head sharply to the side. His words were pure sex but the blade against her jugular drew a thin red line of blood.

She swallowed and tried to stifle her fear. "Yes." The word was a whisper, but her conviction was true.

Michael smiled, liking her response. He eased the blade off her neck and gave the wound a long, sensual lick. Caroline's lashes fluttered; she looked like she might faint with pleasure. Troy coughed to cover a snicker. Michael noticed the mirth anyway and shared it with a sidelong smirk that read like an inside joke between them.

"Caroline," Michael murmured in her ear again. He let his free hand roam over her torso, discovering the shape of her body beneath the loose robes. "Would you kill for me?"

He pressed the knife into her hand then, folding her fingers over the handle. She turned her head to see his face, not following what he meant. He arched his brows at her then sent a meaningful look over at the other acolyte, who was still dutifully lighting candles. They were talking too quietly for the young man to know what they were saying.

Caroline looked at her peer then back at Michael, a number of emotions flitting across her features. He gave her an encouraging nod. She suffered an 'oh shit' moment when the implication sunk in fully. Troy had to smother another snicker. Hesitantly, the girl rose.

Carrying the knife low so it was hidden in the folds of her loose robe, she went over to where her compatriot was working. He glanced at her and sent her a quick smile before focusing on his work. Caroline took one last glance back at the dais then drew back the knife and stabbed him in the back, as hard as she could.

It was an amateur strike: She held the blade like in the Psycho poster, which meant that it glanced off his ribs when she brought it down. He was taller than she was, so the blow hurt him, but it wasn't life-threatening. The acolyte turned and, seeing her readying to strike again, he scurried backward. He bumped into the candelabra he had been lighting, knocking white and red candles to the floor in a blizzard of melted wax.

"What are you doing?!" he cried as he retreated from what he saw as a woman gone suddenly mad.

He looked to the dais and the two men seated there. Michael propped his chin on his hand and Troy just sat there, his expression completely blank. The young man reckoned from their attitudes that this was some sort of test and, dodging Caroline's next lunge, he cast about for something to serve as a weapon.

The only thing nearby was the fallen candelabra. It was almost as tall as he was and weighty, but he grabbed it anyway and swung it like a baseball bat at her. It was an awkward weapon and he missed his target. It did force Caroline back, though, and she had to consider her next move as he had the advantage of range now. He poked at her warily with the curled feet of the brass stand. She wouldn't meet his eyes but was alert for an opportunity to try and stab him again. She avoided his pokes easily, but she couldn't find a hole in his defense.

He poked at her again, using the candelabra this time to force Caroline to back up more. He was trying to pin her against the wall, but she figured that out quickly and veered away from it, toward the pews. She scrambled up on the back of one, knife at the ready. Her fellow acolyte raised the candelabra. It was starting to get cumbersome, so he just held it in a defensive position.

The standoff lasted a few tense seconds, then Caroline gave a shrill shriek and launched herself at him.

He tried to swat her aside with the candelabra, but it was too heavy to move so fast. The three of them went down in a heap. Immediately the girl started stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. She plunged the blade into whatever she could, even nicking herself once. She stabbed until she was sure he had stopped making noise. At long last she dropped the knife and fell off the other acolyte, breathing heavily. Covered in blood, she looked to the dais in shock at what just happened.

Michael awarded her a slow clap and a smirk.

"Like I said. It doesn't take much to get them to turn on each other," he mentioned in an undertone to Troy, as if they'd never strayed from the topic. Then, in a volume Caroline could hear: "Well done, my dear. Go clean up. Return here to me at midnight."

She blinked silently and nodded, then let herself out of the chapel, presumably to go clean herself up.

"What's at midnight?" Troy asked.

"Nothing. I just want to see how she endures other types of pain," Michael dismissed. "She has a strong spirit. If she doesn't break, she'll be an excellent leader."

Troy suspected he was being put through similar paces himself. "Should I call someone to clear away the body?"

Michael glanced over at the bloody heap. The corpse was already beginning to cool but the Antichrist felt his stomach growl anyway. He hadn't eaten in a while. He didn't particularly want lukewarm flesh that had just been in a brawl. He preferred meat with passion and fear in it, not anger and indignation. He rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. There was nothing more annoying than being snackish and not wanting what was on hand.

"Yes, I suppose," he said finally. "Have him fed to the dogs. They haven't had fresh human in a while." He rubbed his middle, suffering another hunger pang himself. "Tomorrow I need you to head to Long Beach. There's a woman there who stole a medallion that belongs to Jeremiah. Billie Dean Howard. I want it back and her dead. She's a psychic of some small ability. Try to exercise your powers. You won't know what you can do until you try."

"Long Beach is a big place," Troy observed. "Do we know where in Long Beach she is?"

"Give me your hand."

It wasn't a request: Troy was compelled to put his hand out. He didn't resist the impulse. Michael cupped both hands around his. For Troy, there was an instant of electric pain but before he could properly react to it, it was gone again. When Michael released him, a wisp of white smoke escaped and disappeared quickly. On the front and back of Troy's hand, an arcane sigil had seared straight through skin and bone, cauterized and healed instantly.

"That will help you find her," Michael said confidently.

"How?" Troy asked, flexing his hand. It felt normal. No pain at all.

"You'll know."

…

It had been Billie Dean's intention to move the young man inside the abandoned beach house and then leave, but she could tell from his aura that he was a good person and that made her feel even worse about hitting him with the car. The world had too few good people left in it.

So she stayed. He was out for over a day, rousing just enough for her to get some water into him before lapsing into unconsciousness again. The next day he woke for a few minutes, several times. Long enough to get a little food and more water into him. Incontinence became a problem, but she took care of that too. There was a time such work would have been beneath her, but the apocalypse had rid her of such hang-ups.

After the third day, he woke and spoke to her while she was moving a pile of fresh linens into the room he occupied.

"Who are you?" he said, his voice raspy from disuse.

She put the sheets down on the chair in the corner of the bedroom and offered him a polite little smile. "Billie Dean. I'm afraid you had a little accident. I've been caring for you. Do you—What's your name?"

The young man squinted and rubbed his forehead. "Jeff." Then: "Jett."

Billie Dean's smile faltered briefly. "Which is it?"

"Jett."

The medium's smile returned. "Jett," she agreed. She didn't care what he wanted to call himself. "Can you tell me how you're feeling? Are you hungry?"

There was a crackle of thunder outside, muffled by the walls and ceiling. The dark-haired young man started to answer but Billie Dean shushed him suddenly. She keened her senses, looking to him like she was just staring off into space. He tried again to speak, but she put her fingers over his mouth and shushed him more insistently.

"There's something at the door," she whispered.

Jett froze and listened. He couldn't hear anything except his own heartbeat. The door to the hall was open and there wasn't anything he could see on the other side. That wasn't the door the psychic was registering, however. She was sensing the large shadowy entity that was right outside the front door.

There were several other shadowy figures flitting by in the fog but the one on the porch was there with purpose. What that could be, Billie Dean couldn't fathom. She could only sense the thing hunkered out there. Her first thought was to find a way out the back but that would leave them out in the open on foot. Whatever was outside hadn't crossed the threshold. It was possible the light or their life essence kept it back. She had no idea.

"What is it?" Jett whispered.

She waved at him but didn't risk more noise shushing him a third time. For a long time, nothing happened. Then there was a heavy knock-knock-knock at the front door. Jett sat up and Billie Dean moved to the head of the bed where she put a hand on his shoulder. They both watched the hallway, lit with emergency candles the medium had found in the kitchen.

There was another stretch of silence then another heavy trio of knocks rattled the door in its frame: Knock. Knock. Knock.

Billie Dean squeezed Jett's shoulder. He pried her hand off and let her grip his instead.

"Whatever happens," she whispered, her words as strong as her grip. "It isn't real. Just keep hold of my hand."

"What? What do you mean?"

There came more pounding at the door then, so loud it echoed in the hall. Knock. Knock. KNOCK.

The last rap was followed by a loud clatter as the door fell in. They both braced themselves but as the seconds stretched into minutes without incident, they looked to each other.

"Let's go see," Jett said quietly.

"I'll go," Billie Dean corrected.

"No way," said Jett firmly. "I'm not letting you face whatever that is by yourself. We go together."

He used her hand to help pull himself out of bed with, wincing only a little at the overall stiffness in his body from laying down for too long. Together they braved the hall, following it around the corner only to find the entryway empty apart from the felled door. There wasn't anything on the porch at that point except fog.

"Is it still here?" Jett asked.

She tried to sense the presence but felt nothing. "I think…it's gone."

"What did it want? Why did it break the door down?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Billie Dean said. "I've never sensed anything like that before. But it seems to be gone now."

Jett was only mildly reassured. "I think it'd be a good idea to get out of here."

"I was heading to Mexico when our paths crossed," Billie Dean smiled awkwardly.

"Do you think maybe I could hitch a ride? I was on my way out of town too. Anywhere but here."

She thought about it. She wasn't entirely sure he was harmless, but she was reasonably confident he didn't want anything from her, except the ride he was asking for.

"You can ride with me if you help me siphon gas on the way." She smiled when she said it, but she meant it. Gas was scarce and she was close to empty when she'd hit him.

"Sounds fair," he agreed.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

I've gotten a lot written lately so I'm releasing it a little quicker than usual. Michael seems to be shifting from Justin Bieber to Caligula. Not sure which is worse, honestly. He and Troy make a toxic combination, encouraging the worst in each other. Also: Billie Dean cameo'd a line from her actor's role in _American Gothic_ (1995). Did you spot it?

Next: Madison distracts Pietre while Desiree makes a deal with the devil of voodoo in an attempt to free Kyle and Zoe.


	55. E7 Chapter 8 - Deal with the Devil

(( _Background music for this chapter:_ Arkham Horror: 1 Hour of HP Lovecraft Creepy Music _by Graham Plowman works great. Again._ ))

"I know what you're trying to do," Madison accused loftily.

Her target was Desiree, and the charge was made from the bed she was chained to. It was a long chain; she could roam about the room freely and even enter the small bathroom. But she was still tethered to the bed.

"What?" Desiree said, trying for innocence.

She was in Madison's room, bringing her food as an excuse to take some to her basement friends, so naturally her thoughts went there first. She wasn't far from right.

"I know you're trying to help those guys in the basement escape," Madison clarified, using an obnoxious 'it's so obvious' tone . She didn't like it when people played dumb, especially when they weren't.

"I—" Desiree started, flustered by the blatant truth.

"Don't bother denying it," dismissed the chained girl. "We both know it's true. Only you can't do it on your own or you would have by now."

Desiree set the tray down and came over to the bedside, wringing her hands. "I haven't done anything. I swear! Please don't tell Fiona."

Madison rolled her eyes. "Get me a cigarette, will you?" Then: "I won't tell anybody your stupid secret. I brought it up because I'm going to help you."

"Help me?" Desiree was lost.

"Yes. Help you. Cigarette?" Madison wiggled her cigarette-less fingers impatiently.

Desiree went to the console to grab one of the cloves and the book of matches, bringing both back to Madison. "How? Why?"

Madison put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. The flame from the match was weak and went out without her having to put it out. She took her time exhaling the smoke and gave the girl a critical look.

"Because I want to," the blonde dead girl said with a tone of bored detachment. "Just make sure you're down by the cages tonight after sunset, ready to do your thing. I can't do help with the collars, but I can distract Pietre long enough for you to work your voodoo, so you can get Kyle and Zoe out of here. You'll have to figure out the collars later when you're out of this dump."

—

That evening, Madison made sure she looked nice. She washed and brushed her hair, dabbed on a little makeup, and put on the most flattering black nightgown the warlock had provided her with. Since her death and subsequent resurrection, very little had an emotional impact on her or stirred significant feelings. She had expected to be nervous about this deceptive plan, but she felt as she typically felt these days: Bland.

Pietre let himself into the room around sunset, when the natural light was fading behind the blinds that covered the window. He was dressed in a black silk shirt with long sleeves in a loose poet's cut and snug black pants. He was barefoot as always, despite the fact that it was winter.

"Good evening," he said to her with a smile.

"So, I know I'm not an expert about this 'end of the world' shit," Madison said by way of returning the greeting. "But Meg said you're the Antichrist. I thought Michael was the Antichrist."

Pietre paused mid-step on his way over to the bed and cocked his head, studying her with a curious smile. "Meg told you that, did she? Interesting. Yes, it is true I am an Antichrist. One of several."

Madison hadn't meant to throw Meg to the proverbial wolves. The youngest triplet hadn't acted like she was revealing a secret when mentioned it. "One of several? Michael's not the only one? I thought he was supposed to, like, destroy the world or some shit like that."

Pietre laughed, seeming to be genuinely amused by her interpretation. He came around the bed to where she was sitting. She had come to associate his approach with pain and discomfort and had to force herself not to tense up. It wasn't a fear reaction; she wasn't afraid. She just wasn't fond of spending her time getting friction burns satisfying his lusts.

"There are many," the warlock reiterated. He started unbuttoning his shirt. "Some will choose to engage in the Armageddon battle. Some of us…choose other paths."

"What path have you chosen?" she prompted. She needed to manage the conversation better, to keep him talking if this was going to work.

"Isn't it obvious? Self-pleasure," he grinned. "Let the others fight for this place. I'll side with whoever wins."

Intrigued in spite of herself, Madison said: "But you support Michael."

"For now," Pietre agreed. He dropped his shirt on the floor and unfastened the fly on his pants. "He seems to be the strongest contender. That may change when the battle begins."

"I don't want to be chained up if there's going to be a battle," Madison said, giving the chain a token tug. "You've kept me tethered to this bed for ages. Let me go. I won't run, I promise."

He laughed and slid out of his pants, like a snake shedding its skin. "That's a thin reassurance. You have nowhere to run to." He sat down on the edge of the bed, close to her hip. Then he leaned over her middle and put his hand down on the mattress on her far side, caging her with his body. "What would you do if you had your freedom, I wonder? Would you immediately try to free your friends downstairs? Or would you wait a bit and try to gain Fiona's trust first?"

Madison tried to laugh off the unexpected question, but it sounded false, even to her. "They're not my friends."

"Then why are you plotting with Desiree to free them?" Pietre asked smoothly. He reached out and stroked her jaw, letting his thumb linger near her mouth.

"I'm not!" she protested.

"Shh," the warlock said, moving his thumb over her lips. "Don't spoil the fun with crude lies. You're planning to keep me busy while your little coven-mate hacks my wards. It's okay. We'll let her think things went according to plan. It will…give her a sense of accomplishment. I don't mind being kept busy for a while." He plucked roughly at the neckline of her negligee, tearing the lace. "We'll let them have, say…two hours? Let's make it three. Then we'll call a Wild Hunt on them. It will be a brilliant way to end Yule. Perhaps the start of a new tradition, thanks to you, my dear. Well played."

He crawled on top of her then and she actually welcomed his voracious sexual appetite for a change. It kept her from dwelling on his words.

—

The thick smoke from the small fire on the basement floor irritated Desiree's lungs and made her want to cough. She resisted the urge; she didn't have time to succumb to a fit of asthma. She was stronger than that. She had to be.

She had positioned her sacred point in the space midway between where the two cages were located. She could see both from where she knelt but neither occupant could see each other. She wasn't sure how long she had so she tried to work quickly and quietly, but there was a verbal component to the ritual of summoning that she had to go through with or else it wouldn't work.

She started the incantation, and as she spoke the old words to draw the attention of Carrefour, she took a small sack of gunpowder and sprinkled several pinches of the black stuff into a tall glass of rum. Then she waved seven tobacco leaves over the glass before casting them into the fire. The green leaves added more smoke to the room, making it difficult for her to see either cage.

The temperature seemed to be rising. Desiree could feel sweat prickling her skin as she continued to chant. The air grew heavier as the tobacco perfumed the basement. The voodoo witch finished the incantation and sagged in on herself for a moment, winded. She was dizzy and slightly euphoric. It was hard to catch her breath. She knew she had to focus, though, or she would quickly be in trouble.

As if sensing her weakness, a shadowy figure separated from the dark recesses of the basement. Desiree blinked against the sting of the smoke to see him better, but it wasn't until he stepped into the firelight that she could make out any distinguishing features. She knew it was him, not only because he looked as the descriptions claimed, but she was suffused with the sense of who and what he was. He gave off a cold, otherworldly presence that couldn't be denied.

He came around the fire to stand over her. It was a terrifying experience to look up into the face of raw, dark power, but Desiree met his stony gaze without wavering. He was incredibly handsome, albeit inflexibly serious. He appeared no older than she, which was a guise as he was immortal. His red t-shirt and black pants could belong to anyone; the fancy red cape and jaunty black top hat were accessories only he wore. The lining of his cape was patterned with large diamonds in darker red, a Mardi Gras flavored design that belied his humorless gaze. His braided hair hung midway down his back and rattled with beads and bones when he moved.

"Maitre Kalfu," the witch said, finding her voice. She knew not to waste his time. "Thank you for answering my call, Monsieur. I beg a favor."

He assessed her and folded his arms. "Are you prepared to pay de price?" His words were accented thickly Creole. His straight teeth were shockingly white against his ink-black skin.

"Yes, Maitre," she answered without hesitation.

"Widout namin' de price?"

"Please, Monsieur, whatever you require. The coven here have imprisoned two people I wish to free. The magic on the cages that hold them is very strong. A warlock's spell. I can't free them without your help."

Carrefour looked from one cage to the next, sensing the entities within. Then he looked down at Desiree again. "A great war is coming. Dey are safe here, wid de bitch-hive."

"But they're prisoners, Maitre," Desiree insisted. "They can barely move. It's not good for them to be so cramped up all the time."

"So make dey cages biggah," the Master of Crossroads said, his tone suggesting she should have thought of something so obvious.

The conversation wasn't going at all the way Desiree had pictured. To placate the Loa, she offered him the rum. His dark red eyes slid to the tall glass and he considered the liquor. She was vastly relieved when he accepted it. She noticed he was wearing several rings on both hands, including a large one on his thumb in the shape of a skeleton that looked like it was made of real bone.

"Monsieur, I beg you to help me," she tried again. She knew the Petro spirits could be very tricky. Persistence and confidence were key. "Will you please free them?"

Despite his aloof attitude, Kalfu gulped the rum eagerly, draining the glass to the very last gunpowder-infused drop. Then he crushed the cup to powder in his hand like mortal men would crush a beer can, with no injury to himself. The powdery sand glittered as it sifted between his long, ebony fingers. He gave her plea only a few seconds of consideration. He already knew the impact of the choices she was making and could steer her any number of ways. The decision lay in which direction he wanted to point her.

"De bargain," he declared. "Is made."

He spread his arms and tipped his head back and an eerie red light shone from his eyes. The doors of both of the cages dropped off their hinges, landing on the floor with a loud metallic clatter.

"Oh! Thank you," Desiree exclaimed when she'd recovered from the surprise of the doors coming off. She had only hoped he would remove the wards on the cages. "Thank you, Monsieur! What payment—"

Carrefour drew his fancy cape around himself and fixed her with an icy stare that made her shrink into herself. "When it is time for you to pay, I will tell you."

He turned then and was gone. Just like that, right before her eyes. It was so sudden, for an instant she wondered if she had just imagined the conversation. But a quick look around assured her the cage doors were indeed on the floor. Kyle was slinking out, looking around suspiciously.

"Kyle!" Desiree said, scrambling to her feet.

She hurried over to him, noticing as she reached him that his collar was missing. Apparently the Master of Crossroads had removed that as well. Despite her immense gratitude for his help, Carrefour's cold stare haunted her. She felt uneasy but tried to dismiss it. She still had work to do and she had to do it fast.

"What's going on?" Zoe called from her cage.

She poked her head out and, seeing Desiree and Kyle together, emerged from her prison as well. She winced as she tried to hurry and found her muscles too stiff to cooperate without aches.

"I got you guys out," Desiree told them. "Now we just have to get you out of the hotel. Once we do, we have to run, Okay? Get out of here. Out of New 'Salem, California…if we can get off this continent, maybe…We just need to get away. Something—something really bad is coming. I think it has to do with Michael."

"Shocker," said Zoe with mild sarcasm. She was quite a sight, not having been allowed a brush or basic hygiene items for too long. "How'd you get past the wards?"

"No time for that now. Come with me," Desiree said. "I have a couple of backpacks of food and stuff hidden outside. Just follow me and if you see anyone—"

"We'll kill them," Zoe promised.

"Let's try to get out of here without a fight," coached Desiree. She headed for the back stairs. "This way."

—

* * *

Author's Note:

"Deal with the Devil" is a literary trope so well-known, it has an entry on TVtropes-dot-com. The entry cautions those who are facing such a trope to "Read the Fine Print", which our two gals in this chapter don't seem to have taken time to do. It also says:

 _"If you should find yourself suckered into a Deal with the Devil, The Power of Love may be your best bet at defeating the infernal contract. Or you can try your luck (literally) with a Jury of the Damned."_

So. Power of love or a jury of the damned could potentially fix everything. Anybody wanna lay odds?

Next chapter's the last one of this Episode. We'll see if Kyle and Zoe get away in the finale chapter. Then, next Episode, all Hell breaks loose with " _Gehenna_ ".


	56. E7 Chapter 9 - Escape from LA

(( _Ambient music: The Great Old Ones and Other Beings by Graham Plowman_ ))

The fugitive trio headed for the coast on foot. It was Zoe's thought that they might be able to find a boat of some sort down at the Santa Monica Pier, even something they could pilot manually, which would hopefully make it harder for anyone to follow them. A couple of hours into their quick hike down Santa Monica Boulevard they passed through Beverly Hills. Desiree and Zoe joked around about sidetracking to squat in one of the swanky mansions, but the jests were half-hearted. There was no way they were going to stop, not even to rest.

Close to Woodlawn Cemetery they started to hear the blood-chilling sounds of the hellhounds Pietre conscripted to help in the hunt. Their diabolical howls cut through the fog, low and siren-like in their incessant wail. It was a disturbing sound that brought a sense of impending doom that scattered the wildlife, those that had adapted to the fog and the new creatures, predator and prey alike. The group picked up speed and opted to jog the rest of the way to the pier. If it was up to Kyle, he would have run since he was immune to feeling tired, but the women needed to pace themselves.

They eventually arrived at the Santa Monica Pier, with the incessant howls following them the whole way. Desiree recognized the boardwalk by the boarded-up aquarium. The main sign was hidden from view at the angle they came in from, but the roller coaster was impossible to miss even in the fog. The towering structure had rusted and was crusty with salt, but a handful of feeble lights still managed to put out weak, flickering light, powered by a sturdy solar generator that had long outlived its creator. The roller coaster creaked ominously when the wind picked up and loomed over them as they passed, a shadowy skeletal beast in the dark mist.

Noticeably closer than before, they could hear the sound of the Wild Hunt pursuing them. The howls of the hellhounds echoed eerily in the deserted streets of Los Angeles. For Kyle, it stirred muddy memories of being chased out of Sin City to be cornered by the same people chasing him now. Only this time, he had Zoe with him. Being close to her made him feel better—more like the person he was before Fiona took back her gift.

The group made it to the end of the pier, startling some blood crows into flight. The boardwalk had suffered a considerable amount of weather damage over the years without humans around to care for the wood and concrete. There was no sign of sea-craft anywhere. There were no boats near the pier and there weren't any along the shore as far as the night fog allowed them to see. If there had been any watercraft there before, they were all long gone.

The three looked at each other, each thinking more or less the same thing: We're screwed.

There was nothing at the end of the pier that could be of obvious help. The harbor office had a first aid station they could possibly hide in but then they would be trapped with no way to escape.

"Fuck!" Zoe swore, pacing in a circle. She rapped her head with her knuckles, but it didn't help her come up with a plan. "Why didn't I learn that stupid water-breathing spell?!"

"There's a water-breathing spell?" Desiree asked, momentarily distracted from her growing panic.

Zoe nodded and calmed a little. She found it easier to think when she was instructing someone else. "It's a temporary effect but it would be a literal life-saver right now. I never bothered with it when I saw it in the grimoire because, you know, when was I ever going to need to breathe underwater?"

"There's a grimoire?" pressed Desiree, even more intrigued.

"Fiona didn't tell you?"

The mulatto with shook her head.

Kyle made an impatient grunt. He didn't like how close the Hunt sounded and wished the women would take the conversation someplace else.

"It's a big book of spells," said Zoe. "I'll tell you more about it later. Right now, we need a plan."

—

(( _Music: Rise of R'lyeh by Graham Plowman_ ))

When the Wild Hunt reached the pier and drew within sight of the three individuals cornered at the end, Pietre had the triplets reign in the hellhounds. He didn't want the escapees destroyed; he wanted them captured, if possible. They were much easier to torture when they were whole. The infernal hounds would tear them to pieces if allowed.

There were four of the monstrous beasts: Meg and Tisi each controlled one and Alec was in charge of the other two. The short-haired creatures were solidly built, broad and muscular, standing as high as a man's hip. They had the height of a Great Dane and the skeletal frame of a Russian bear dog. Their heads were wedge-shaped, mostly teeth and snarl, with fangs as long as a man's hand. They had long whip-like tails that leant them an almost reptilian mien but their thick canine claws were enormous. They slobbered and snapped, held at bay by sturdy black iron chains hooked to their collars—collars similar to the ones Zoe and Kyle had shed.

Zoe and Desiree were braced, their postures indicating their readiness to fight. Pietre made a slight motion with his hand that was meant for Tisi then he stepped out in front of his pack to take the lead. He closed the distance between the groups with confident strides, his bare feet soundless on the boardwalk, muffled by roll of the ocean waves. The cold air didn't bother him one bit.

"Leave us alone!" Zoe shouted when the hunters got too close. "You have what you wanted! You don't need us anymore!"

She meant the Daggers of Armageddon, of course. Her assumptions made the warlock laugh. Her lack of insight genuinely amused him. "Need? We never _needed_ you, silly child."

Zoe wasn't sure how to react to that, but she didn't like how he was still coming closer. "Back off! I'm warning you! We're not going back to those cages!" She made a threatening motion with her hands, summoning a flicker of green flame between them.

Pietre stopped and lifted his hands in a placating fashion. "Fine. You don't like your cages? You've both been fairly well behaved up until tonight. Tell you what. Stop this foolish game. Come back with us now, like good boys and girls, and you won't be caged. Only collared and brutally tortured."

"..just like Madison," muttered Desiree darkly. She had told her companions what had become of the undead witch.

"You would like it if I treated you as I have Madison, wouldn't you, my dear?' Pietre sneered, lancing her with a look that left her feeling molested.

"In your dreams, asshole!" Desiree fired back.

The blond man laughed but he also made another motion with his hands, a little flick of his fingers that the triplets recognized instantly, putting them on alert for their part in what would come next. Deep thunder growled overhead and a flash of lighting high overhead brightened the fog briefly. The wind picked up, causing the roller coaster to creak and groan and the lights to flicker like mad. The hellhounds strained at the ends of their blackened chains, eager for a fight and thirsty for blood.

"Get ready," Zoe cautioned her companions, her eyes on Pietre and his lackeys.

Desiree needed no warning. She had spent enough time in the man's company to recognize his somatic magic style. She bent her left knee a little, like she used to do in softball when she wanted to hit one into the outfield.

"Now!" Zoe said and brought her foot down hard.

Several things happened simultaneously then. The energy from Zoe's motion translated into a rippling green magic fire that lapped around the outline of the complex pentagram they had scratched onto the boardwalk. Desiree snapped off a quick incantation, finishing the lynch pin of the spell just as lightning arced down from the sky. The bolt of white-hot electricity struck the boardwalk with a magnificent explosion of sparks, destroying the sacred circle and knocking all three of the runaways down. It had no effect on the hellhounds and the triplets, braced for what was coming, managed to stay their feet.

The smoke from the blast was absorbed by the fog but the ozone smell lingered. Pietre and the Hunt closed in on the felled individuals.

"That was the weakest protection spell I've ever encountered," the warlock said scornfully.

Zoe tried to get to her feet but her whole body was abuzz and her already-weakened muscles were sluggish to respond. "Wasn't…a protection spell."

Before anyone else could say anything, they all felt a rumble beneath the boardwalk. It was a deep bass sound that heralded instant alarm in every intelligent creature that heard it, even the women who had cast the spell.

"That doesn't sound like a giant squid," Desiree said with trepidation.

The water level below rose drastically as the tide came in. It wasn't big enough to be a tidal wave, but it was a large influx of water rushing in all at once, propelled forward by something huge moving beneath the surface. And it moved fast. In the time it took the combatants to register the sound and rising tide, the creature made landfall, surfacing at the end of the pier in a giant spray of seawater.

The monster was a hideosity right out of nightmares. It was definitely not a giant squid, though it did have some cosmetic similarities to the species, particularly in the eyes and skin and in the tentacle-like limbs it dragged itself about with. It scurried alarmingly fast toward the closest living things, who unfortunately happened to be the runaways. Kyle tensed, ready to brawl, but the thing took one swipe at him with a tentacle the size of a tree trunk. It swept him off the pier and out into the dark water. The bizarre beast was on Zoe next, seizing her with one of its many slimy pseudopods. She tried to defend herself by performing a life-draining hex on it but either it was immune, not alive, or she was weaker than she realized. Either way, the power had no effect.

Pietre shook off his surprise and rallied a counter-attack before the aquatic menace could get to his group. He had the triplets release the hounds and, while the leviathan was busy being harried by the demon dogs, the warlock and his apprentices hit it with a group lightning bolt that quickly made calamari of the thing.

The two dogs that survived the encounter were able to dig the rogue witches out of the blackened remains of the dead creature, which smelled like rotten fish. It was too late for Zoe, who had been crushed in the thing's titan grip, but Desiree was relatively unharmed. There was no sign of Kyle.

—

"What then?" Michael prompted the warlock when the other man paused retelling his version of events to refill his scotch glass.

"We collared the girl and left her chained on the pier for the rest of the night," Pietre smiled. He sipped his drink, then added: "We hoped maybe the zombie boy would come for her but...he didn't. As for the girl...A night in the wild without her powers and she was begging us the next morning to bring her back. She's caged in the basement now. Stronger wards this time."

"Did she say what happened? How did she free them?" pressed Michael. "Did she tell you who the father of the baby is?"

"She said Carrefour broke the wards and freed the prisoners," Pietre said.

"What's a Carrefour?"

"A voodoo god. Do you know of Legba?"

Michael nodded. He had learned the basics of every religion of man while growing up. It was something Father Jeremiah had insisted on even though Michael had found most of it boring. The voodoo stuff was interesting, but they had given it the same amount of attention as all the other faiths, and no more.

"Carrefour is his…dark mirror. In voodoo tradition there is a…" Pietre fished for the right words. His English didn't often fail him but for this archaic concept, he was having to translate through three languages. "For every light, there is a shadow. Carrefour is Legba's darkness. Some believe he is the Devil of the Petro Loa."

Michael frowned thoughtfully. "She asked a voodoo prince of darkness to help her?" He snorted. "Is she a moron?"

"I don't believe so," opined Pietre, swirling the liquor in his glass. "Naïve, perhaps. Ambitious. Certainly powerful. She summoned a demon lord and managed to enlist his assistance."

"Sort of," Michael scoffed.

"She asked him to free them," Pietre pointed out. "What happened after that was in her hands."

"And you're sure she's not an idiot?"

Pietre smiled. "I think she has value to your cause, either way."

Michael pulled a last drag from his cigarette then snubbed it out in the ashtray that sat on the end table between them. "When her baby's born, I want it checked for my Father's mark."

"And if the child is unmarked?"

"The coven can keep it," decided Michael. "Raise it to be a soldier for our cause."

Pietre found that an interesting answer. "What if the infant _is_ marked?"

Michael was silent a long moment as he chewed on his dark thoughts. Finally, he said: "Then it can share the fate of my Father's other bastard."

xxx

* * *

Author's Note:

Cue music. Roll credits.

Okay, so the title of this chapter's a misnomer. Nobody escaped. Well, maybe Kyle? We'll see. The title's taken from a fun 80's action flick. No one in this story turned out to be a Snake Pliskin though.

Next Episode: Gehenna. Hell on earth. The final battle is here. Angels are real—and terrifying. There's a reason they always had to start meetings with humans by saying "Be not afraid." in the Bible. Fallen angels tend to be associated with darkness. Angels are light. Think: Sun. Nuclear detonation. Supernova. Blinding, searing, face-melting light.

And they're pissed off.


	57. E8 Chapter 1 - Gehenna

**New Year's Eve - 2032**

Snow was practically unheard of in Los Angeles. The most snowfall downtown had ever seen was in January 1932, when a whopping 2 inches drifted down and surprised the hell out of a bunch of overworked pioneers.

It snowed again, just after midnight on January 15th, 2032, exactly 100 years later.

This time, the snow fell thick and white over the city. It came down in driving drifts outside the windows of the Montgomery Mansion, creating intricate swirling patterns that went unnoticed by those within the old walls. In the downstairs great room, Evangelina struggled with agonizing contraction pains. In the past weeks, the twins had grown rapidly, causing her a great deal of physical discomfort. Now she was going into labor, yet she was only halfway through the normal gestation period of a human woman. She tried to deny it at first but when her water broke, she sent Tate next door to fetch help. Jeremiah was down at the church, so the boy had returned with Constance, who immediately understood what was happening.

"It's too soon!" Evangelina objected as Constance led her to the couch that the ghosts of murdered nursing students were spreading newspaper and white sheets over. "This can't be happening!"

"But it is!" Constance assured her, patting her hand as she helped the distressed woman onto the sofa. "Once this process starts, there's no goin' back."

"But I haven't carried them long enough," Evangelina insisted. She had borne a baby before. She knew how long that one had been inside her and she had seen other women go through the process.

"Nature knows better than you do," said Constance with thinning gentleness. She was tiring of reassuring the mother-to-be and was growing anxious about the pending births herself.

"Move out of the way, please," Charles said to her, taking charge of the situation now that he was adequately washed and suited up for surgery. Once Constance stepped aside, he addressed Maria, the nursing student who still wore the stab wounds of her untimely death. "How far apart are her contractions?"

The other nursing student, a plump girl named Gladys, slipped a mask over Evangelina's face and held it in place so she would breathe in the anesthesia. The girl had been drowned and water dripped from her hair onto Evangelina's face. There was a faint hiss as the nitrous oxide gas began to flow. Breathing it in dulled the excruciating pain to a tolerable ache, allowing the pregnant woman to relax a little. Around her, people were talking but she was losing track of the conversation.

"Michael…" she mumbled into the mask. Speech was becoming effort as the sedative went to work. "He wanted…to be here…"

"He's on his way," Constance lied. "You just try to relax and focus on those babies."

It was so very tempting to slide away into the comforting bliss of the numbing gas but Evangelina's strength of purpose rallied a final fight. She pushed herself up as much as she could, to catch Constance's eyes. She wanted the woman's full attention.

"Michael's planning to kill the baby that isn't his," she said, injecting all of her fading strength into her words. "Please don't let him!"

Constance already knew of her grandson's plan. In that, at least, he had been more forthcoming than her son, where it came to his plans to execute tragedy. She gripped the other woman's hand and there were tears of conviction in her eyes when she said: "You can rest assured I won't."

The steely reassurance brought relief that weakened Evangelina's resolve to stay awake. She slipped under the muffling blanket of the gas into a deep sleep she wouldn't wake from. Dr. Montgomery wasn't interested in saving her life, only those of the babies.

One after the other he pulled the infants from the long gash he expertly cut into their mother's midsection. They were clinging to each other, tangled in a knot of their own umbilical cords in a way that would have proven fatal to mother and sons, if Evangelina had tried to birth them naturally. Both boys, the newborns had to be pried apart before their cords could be clamped for cutting. One of the twins squalled loud and fierce when he was pulled away from his brother. The other infant hiccupped his cries but was no less incensed by the rough handling.

"Nurse!" Charles snapped. "Clean these!"

The two nursing students tried to move in, but Constance beat them away with impatient flailing of her hands. "Shoo! Shoo! I'll take care of them! They're my great-grandsons, for Christ's sake!"

The doctor didn't care who took them and had no issue with passing the fussing infants over to her. As soon as they were in her arms, the blonde woman's demeanor went gentle and she capably tucked them both into secure football holds.

"There now," she cooed at them both. "There, there. We'll getcha all cleaned up and into warm clothes…A nice bottle…Everythin'll be just perfect, my sweet angels. You'll see."

She really believed that in the post-partum delirium. She truly had faith that the babies were a brand new start for everyone. They were the future of the world, and that had to be a good thing. The sounds of their angry cries echoed down the hall as she carried them deeper into the heart of the house.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...  
**

In the bathroom attached to the nursery, the babies quieted down with the introduction of a warm bath and Constance's loving ministrations. A veteran caregiver, she knew exactly how to wash and massage, lotion and trim, pamper and soothe. And all with the gentlest of hands. As she cleansed and settled the twins, she familiarized herself with their whole bodies, just as she had with Michael and each of her own babies. Children in her care were allowed no secrets from her.

Zachariel was slightly bigger than his brother, weighing three ounces more and having a slightly larger head circumference. They both bore the mark of Satan behind their ear, in the same spot Michael did. They both looked like their father to her. It wasn't like when Joshua was born. That infant was obviously not of her line, being all scrawny and dark-haired. These two she could instinctively tell were her kin. She could smell it on them, and she could see it in their perfect little features. They were every bit as beautiful as Tate had been when he was born.

After the bath she swaddled them in warm blankets the Warwicks had provided. She fed the twins blood-infused milk that the kitchen provided, served in antique glass bottles. For a few precious moments while they nursed in her arms, the world was perfect. It occurred to her that, had things gone the way the prophecy said, they would have been hers directly. There was a small twinge of loss acknowledging that. She felt no regret, though. Watching Evangelina struggle and die much as Vivien had validated her choices.

The babies were both sleeping in her arms when Constance sensed Michael's presence descending on the nursery. She could feel his pending arrival like hearing thunder before a storm. He didn't bother entering like a human; he simply willed himself into the nursery where she sat rocking them by the light of a rotating musical nightlight. His mood was intense. It drew the ambient shadows of the room to him in a sinister way. The playful images the nightlight cast on the walls distorted into demonic figures that tore at each other, molesting and murdering one another. It was a display that would terrify a normal person. Experience had rendered Constance impervious to such displays. She continued rocking without missing a beat. Her resolve was stronger than any temper tantrum he could throw at her.

"Let me see them," he said. His voice was low and menacing but lacked the characteristic control he'd developed. He sounded more like the boy she remembered him to be, before his position went to his head.

Constance continued to rock. The music box started another nameless, tinkling lullaby.

"They're both marked," she said. She kept her eyes on the babies, but the rest of her senses were trained on Michael. She only appeared relaxed. "And they're both yours."

Michael's mouth tightened as he felt an unfamiliar heat in the pit of his stomach that made his eyes sting. He didn't know what to make of the reaction, so he ignored it. "No. You're wrong."

Constance looked up then, her brows high. "You don't believe your unholy Father can make a duplicate of your son?"

"They have his mark—"

"So do you!" Constance flared. She had meant to be calm with him but his refusal to see the obvious eroded her patience too quickly. "So do I! So do most of the people around you these days! We're all His children and they're _your_ sons."

When she put it that way, Michael found it hard to argue her logic, but that didn't make it easy to accept what she was saying. He had to know for himself. He focused on the twins. His eyes rolled back in his head as he opened his awareness to the wholeness of each infant. On a biological, genetic level, they were identical to one another in virtually every way, with certain size variations the only detectable difference between them. Their energy patterns were similar to his own, and to Tate's too. He could sense their preternatural strength. As small and vulnerable as they were, they were not helpless. It was impossible to deny their kinship; their pedigree was too strong. They were his offspring.

Withdrawing back to his physical body, Michael blinked a few times and found Constance staring at him. He brushed a hand under his nose to make sure he wasn't bleeding. He wasn't.

"Satisfied?" she prompted when he didn't immediately incinerate either of the sleeping babies.

He considered taking offense at her tone but didn't feel like wasting time being sidetracked by the drama it would require. "Which was born first?"

"They came out together," she answered proudly, as if they had accomplished something wonderful. "C-section."

"Evangelina?"

"She…didn't make it."

"Where's her body?" Michael bristled.

"How should I know?" said Constance indignantly. "I've been tendin' to these special little lambs. Ask Charles."

The thorny conversation was too much for the twins: They were starting to fuss. Constance resumed cooing and preening them. Her manner let her grandson know he was making a nuisance of himself.

"Which one is which?" he demanded, not about to be shut down. He wanted a way to tell them apart, if birth order didn't designate them.

"This is Zachariel," she said, lightly patting the baby in the gray blanket. Then she patted the brick-red bundle, the smaller of the twins. "This is Gabriel." She paused then added: "Do you want to hold them?"

"Hold them?" Michael echoed incredulously. "Why would I want to do that?"

"They're your sons," Constance said, amazed she had to spell it out for him. "Most fathers like to bond with their children by holdin' them."

Michael had killed before without even meaning to. The idea of holding those fragile little scraps of life in his bare hands didn't sit well with him. He eyed the swaddled bundles with open suspicion. Then he turned on a sharp-toed shoe and headed for the door.

Constance watched him go and sighed. She resumed rocking. "Sorry, boys," she told the twins. "It's not your fault. Daddy issues run in this family."

—

It didn't take Michael long to find Evangelina's body, what remained of it. Charles had cut away all but the best parts, and those he had jarred and stored with his rest of his collection in the basement. Her jars were the cleanest, being the newest. There were bits of Vivien Harmon on the shelf as well, and other women who must have died in the house sometime over the past 30 years who Charles found worthy of keeping. There were several babies and baby parts as well, but those were of less interest to the Antichrist.

Some of Evangelina's blood was still wet on the central operating table. Michael went over to it, stared down at the streaky red mess. There would be no reincarnating her—there wasn't enough left in the jars to reanimate. The thought made his guts cramp. He focused on the half-coagulated pool of blood on the table top and dragged two fingers through it to form the shape of a pentagram.

The room trembled and the old lights flickered on, hazy blue in the stirred-up dust. He sensed her presence then, emerging from the ether like she was waking from sleep. Then he saw her. She looked as he remembered her last: Beautiful and pale, only now her middle was flat beneath her softly flowing white toga. Her eyes were haunted; she looked close to tears.

"Evangelina," said Michael. The word was devoid of feeling.

"Michael!" She registered his presence only now that he'd spoken. To her, he seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Oh, Michael, I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough…"

She came over to him, tears in her eyes. Her body language said she wanted him to hold her. He didn't react initially as he decided how to handle her apology. Then he turned on a smile and opened his arms to her. Relief flooded her face. She fell into his arms and pressed her cheek against his chest. Being close to him felt even more vital than it had in life; it was a growing addiction that was getting exponentially stronger with each passing second. She needed him in ways she had never needed another person before. Distantly, she realized something had shifted in her, but she was too lost in the warmth of his embrace and musky-spicy scent to care.

He could sense her nature polarizing, as was the way of ghosts. The process reminded him of the Jell-O treats Mother Constance used to serve when he was little. Evangelina's strongest traits in life were concentrating. The rest would slowly fade away and eventually she would be just like the rest of the spirits in the house: Lost in her own repetitive, beautiful nightmare.

"Hey. It's okay," he told her, stroking her long hair down her back. His thoughts were polarizing as well. "You're safe now. I'm never going to let anyone hurt you ever again."

He kissed her then, long and deep, a kiss that was one part passion and one part territorial. Afterward, he held her close for a while, savoring the connection. When he was ready, he collected her up and bound her soul into the hematite stone that decorated the ring on his left middle finger. She barely had time to register something strange was happening then she was gone, locked securely inside the gem. The black stone was noticeably warmer after her soul fused with it. It glowed deep within.

Michael stroked the topmost facet with a finger. "Forever mine," he said, quite satisfied with his work.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

The tidbit about snow in 1932 is true. I wanted to know if/when it had snowed in Los Angeles and it just so happened it was 100 years before the time this story is set. Weird but true, the way that worked out. Has me wondering what the heck happened in 1932, in this fictional world. Feel free to send me your wild theories.

I'm still not sure if imprisoning Evangelina in a gem is Michael's idea of romance or punishment. Maybe both? His reasons are definitely complicated. I thought a bit about what life inside the gem might be like and it got depressing quick. Even if she's "sleeping", in some sort of fantasy dream world, unaware of what's really happened to her...she's trapped in that pretty prison. It'd be even worse if she's aware of where she is.

Gehenna is the end of the world, but this Episode is a little more than halfway through the Season. Every ending is just the beginning of something new, after all.

Next time: Troy catches up with Billie Dean and shit gets ugly.


	58. E8 Chapter 2 - Following Orders

Roughly an hour after Constance put the twins down together in the antique bassinet Pat had refinished, Tate appeared at the door to the nursery. The fresh scent of baby powder sweetened the air in an unfamiliar way, though he wasn't sure if the difference bothered him or if it made the house better. He crept, silent but not unseen, to the wheeled basket and wondered at the copious amounts of grey and black lace adorning the hood.

Cautiously he peeked into the bassinet. The newborns were wrapped up and placed in a row. It reminded Tate of convenience store burritos. The babies were asleep. Their blond hair was virtually invisible, making them both look bald in the dim light. One was nursing in his sleep. The way his lip pooched out was kind of funny. Impulsively, Tate reached to poke the little lip.

He never made contact. A hand clamped around his wrist and stopped him even reaching into the bassinet. He was still in child form, so he had to look up to make eye contact with his mother.

"You don't need to be doin' that," she told him, her words firm if quiet.

"I wasn't going to hurt him." Tate was injured by her lack of faith in him.

"He needs his sleep." Constance tugged him away from the twins, not bothering to be gentle about it. "They both do. They _don't_ need you pesterin' them."

He sulked up at her and tried to wriggle free from her iron grip. He didn't like how she was favoring the babies. "You're not their mother."

Her hand tightened on his wrist so fiercely, she made him cringe. "I'm the only mother they have. Just. Like. You."

"Ow, Mama!" Tate stopped trying to pull away when he realized that was just making her hold tighter.

She reeled him in by his arm and slapped a hand over his mouth. "Shhh!" she hissed.

In his youthened state it was easy to grab him up and haul him away. She took him out to the hall where she could keep an eye on the bassinet but still have a bit of space between them. Her son was crying by the time deposited him on his feet, so she kept her hand over his mouth.

"You need to stop actin' like the child you're pretendin' to be," she scolded, quietly but vehemently. "Or do you want me to treat you like you're seven? Is that it? Is that what you want? Because I'll put you in the naughty closet, if that's what you really want!"

Tate whimpered. Her nails were digging into his cheek and the look in her eyes was scary. He couldn't even apologize to calm her down because of the way her hand was covering his mouth. Locked in the realness of the moment, he had forgotten how old he really was and what he could do. He didn't see himself as an evolved spirit or the supernatural demi-god he liked to tell himself he was. No, he was just weak little Tate, angry and scared as ever, and he was in trouble. Again.

Constance gave him a long hard stare. When she was sure he would control himself, she let him go with a swat on his bottom. "Go find somethin' to do that won't wake the babies," she said with an air of disgusted dismissal.

He had no choice but to do as she said. All of the ghosts in the house had personal compulsions that still lingered despite their new freedoms. Dr. Harmon stood at the window every day, jerking off and crying. Violet killed herself regularly. Mrs. Nora was perpetually looking for her lost baby. Tate's compulsion was to do whatever the women in charge of the house told him to do.

Fortunately, most of them hadn't caught on to the fact that he was susceptible to their whims. Mrs. Nora knew, when she was lucid. Moira knew but she didn't like Tate, so she generally just avoided him. Chad, though not technically a woman, still somehow managed the same control and wielded it knowingly like a multi-tool. Tate's mother was the same way. She once told him that she wished she'd had the same control over him in life because things would have been a lot different.

Her instruction this time was to do something that wouldn't wake the babies, so he went to the dining room where he sat down at the long, dark wood table and set to pulling all of the plastic grapes off the centerpiece. It was a quiet activity that didn't wake anyone. It didn't even set off Chad's sensitive radar since the destruction was easily undone. One only had to pop the rubbery fruit back onto the wire stems. The mischief was incidental; his thoughts were on Nora. Constance wouldn't even let Tate touch the babies. It was starting to seem unlikely that she would let him take one for Mrs. Montgomery.

…

The foggy world felt strange to Troy as he rode his borrowed motorcycle down the long, cracked stretches of untended California highway. The recent earthquakes had damaged many areas of the pavement, making it impassable for anything other than what he was riding—or an ATV. The conditions of the aging roads would make them obsolete soon. Vehicles would need to be capable of off-road conditions if they were to be operable at all in the world that was unfolding.

The perpetual fog had killed a lot of the natural vegetation. Only the plants that could survive in shade managed to cling to life. A few leaf-bearing trees stuck out among the claw-like bare branches of the rest. Grass had died off, leaving large plots of bald dirt dotted with a few scraggly weeds and determined shrubs. The only animals Troy saw along the way were the blood crows he had come to associate with Michael. A flock of them moved along with him, sometimes flying ahead to land and wait for him to pass, only to fly ahead of him again. They were the eyes of the Antichrist.

It was weird to be virtually alone and yet feel so safe in the misty horror-scape. Back at the orphanage, he had thought about running away more than once but he had nowhere to run to and no real knowledge of what the world outside was like. What little he had witnessed of the world as a child had been enough to make him believe he was better off with the brethren, but there was always an underlying urge to to run and keep running.

Troy felt the mark on his hand heat up. Glancing at it, the northeastern edge was pulsing with faint red light just bright enough for him to see. He steered that way and the heat and light moved to a point near his middle knuckle,. After a very short time he could tell which way to steer without looking at his hand. He tell by the way it felt where the infernal light was positioned.

The closer he got, the more apprehensive he felt. He had witnessed many obscene and horrifying things since leaving his church group in New 'Salem but it was one thing to indulge in sins of the flesh and witness perversion. It was another thing to murder a stranger.

 _"_ _Will you kill for me?"_

Michael had asked that of the acolyte in the chapel before setting her on her coworker. Now Troy was riding through Long Beach at Michael's behest, to kill someone he'd never even met. He wanted to blame fear for going along with everything so far, but he couldn't pin it all on that. Certainly there was an element of fear there. Michael was terribly intimidating even when he was being friendly. Troy wouldn't want to see him angry, let along experience the brunt of his anger. But it wasn't intimidation alone that drove the ex-parishioner. It wasn't even the seduction of power, fame, or security. It was the desire to know who and what he, himself, was.

Maybe Michael was the wrong answer, but he was the only _real_ answer Troy had seen to all the chaos and insanity that was going on in the world. He was Troy's best chance of understanding anything that was happening.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

The more things change, the more they stay the same. As much Constance's methods suck, I can't really blame her for banishing Tate from the nursery. He didn't mean any harm but he could easily hurt the babies accidentally. He doesn't have the same hangups Michael does. Ironically.

Troy's segment I admit was mostly to draw a fresh picture of what the world is like at the start of 2032. Also, I love motorcycles and every good post-apocalyptic story has an epic cross-country motorcycle ride in it. Next time we'll catch up with Billie Dean. I may be a bit slower in posting over the next couple of weeks as finals are on in college and it's the Christmas holiday. Lots of pokers in the fire and they have marshmallows on 'em!


	59. E8 Chapter 3 - Unholy War

Billie Dean had driven through the night and well past when the sun brightened the fog that hazed the freeway. She wanted to keep driving straight through to Mexico, but she wasn't as young as she used to be. Too many long hours behind the wheel of the station wagon got to be too much for her tricky right hip and she had to pull over. Jett offered to drive but he was still in no condition to try. So they camped by the side of the road.

Billie Dean had to stretch out in the back of the car. Jett reclined the passenger seat. It was easier and less painful than moving. His upper back was giving him trouble, sore from being hit by Billie Dean's car, but even more so after being on the road for so long on uneven pavement. They had been resting only a couple of hours, just long enough to doze off, when there was a solid thump on the roof of the car. The sound startled Jett awake. Billie Dean, exhausted, merely stirred in her sleep and smacked her lips.

There was a pregnant pause where silence and the rapid beating of Jett's heart were the only sounds the young man heard. Then there came a slow tip-tip-tip sound from above. Thick claws tapping on metal. There was another loud thump followed by another. The sound was like softballs hitting the car.

Billie Dean startled awake. "W-what's going on?" she mumbled, dazed. She looked around but the bright fog surrounding the car offered no answers.

"Something's out there," Jett said quietly.

There were several more thumps and more tip-tipping. Then there was a loud whump and a large black bird landed on the hood of the car. Its blood red eyes were rheumy and peered in at Jett with keen intelligence. It had greasy black feathers and long, black claws like hooks. It tipped its head, studying him. Then it slammed its pointed black beak into the windshield.

The move startled Jett, who put up his arms reflexively even though the bird was outside. It pecked the windshield again. The sound was like a hammer.

"I think we should get out of here," he said, staring at the gruesome thing, afraid to look away.

Billie Dean got to her hands and knees so she could crawl toward the front of the car, which took some doing at her age. "How many—" she started but a hammering sound right above her head made her squeal in surprise.

There were more and more thumps overhead and more on the hood of the car as large black birds continued to land on it. Their combined weight rocked the station wagon, and they were all starting to peck at it, resulting in a horrendous cacophony.

"Billie Dean," Jett urged.

"I can't—I'm stuck," she said. She had gotten herself halfway over the back of the seat into the 2nd row but wasn't flexible enough to draw her leg up over the headrest.

"Billie Dean!" Jett repeated insistently when he noticed the bird in front of him was beginning to crack the glass. "You really need to get up here with those keys!"

"I'm trying!" defended Billie Dean, and she really was. She was even more unnerved by the presence of the demonic birds than he was. She could feel the evil emanating from them and knew who they represented.

A spiderweb crack appeared in the windshield as another bird started pecking at it. Above, the roof was denting in from the repeated drilling.

"Christ! How strong are these God-damned birds?!" Jett exclaimed.

"Don't—blaspheme," the medium grunted, finally squirming over the seat. "It gives the darkness strength."

She slithered her way up into the driver's seat, accidentally elbowing Jett in the shoulder as she did. They had another tense moment while she fumbled with the keys, almost dropping them. She managed to cram the key into the ignition and cranked the engine, expecting the birds to take flight. They didn't. They ignored the engine noise and continued their assault. The glass fractured on Jett's side as the raven continued to peck. He saw the tip of the creature's beak poke through.

"Get us out of here!" he hollered, losing his composure. He didn't want to be pecked to death.

Billie Dean threw it into gear and revved engine. They lurched forward only to have the whole engine suddenly burst into flame. It went up so hot and fierce, the hood blew right off the car, straight upward. It came clattering back down seconds later. The flock of birds scattered.

"Sweet Jesus," Billie Dean prayed, gripping the steering wheel in terror. "Oh, sweet Jesus. Save us."

The fire surged then died abruptly, leaving the dead engine trailing a tongue of black smoke into the fog. Even though the car was obviously shot, Billie Dean still cranked the key. Nothing happened.

"Forget it," said Jett. "We have to get out."

"We can't," the medium objected. "Not with those things out there!"

"They're gone for now. This is our best chance to—"

He stopped because Billie Dean's attention had shifted to something beyond the busted windshield and the fear on her face was alarming. Jett looked in that direction as well and saw a man emerging from the mist. He was dressed all in black: Black turtleneck, black pants, black leather jacket, black motorcycle boots. His clothes looked new, something Jett wasn't used to seeing. The guy's hair was dark too, as was his body language as he came closer to the car. He had his arms out to his sides, the sleeves of his jacket shoved up to bare his lower arms. His hands were positioned like he was ready to grapple and there was a glowing red mark on his hand that matched the glowing red of his eyes. As they watched, his hands caught fire, though it didn't seem to hurt him.

"It's one of Michael's minions," Billie Dean whispered in horror. "He's found me." She turned to Jett, resolve galvanizing. "I'm going to distract him. You need to get as far from here as you can. It's me he's after."

"No!" Jett said emphatically. "I told you before: I'm not leaving you!"

"There's a gun in the glove box," she said, ignoring his protests. "When he's busy with me, take it and go. Go as fast as you can. Find someplace to—"

The man outside raised a hand and fire lanced from his outstretched palm to the car, hitting the passenger's side front tire. The car shuddered and sank on that side as the rubber tire melted. The inner tube didn't even have a chance to pop; it just liquefied.

"No time to argue," Billie Dean said, ending the debate. She got out of the car, waving her arms over her head. "Hey! You! You lookin' for me?"

The young man had been readying to take a shot at the other front tire, but he held off. "You have something that doesn't belong to you."

Her hand went to her breastbone, where the pendant of Samael was hidden beneath her blouse. It was an unintentional motion, but it was too late to correct it. "It doesn't belong to you, either."

"Michael wants it back," the fiery young man said.

"Then why doesn't Michael come take it himself?" Billie Dean challenged.

"He's busy."

"What's your name?"

The young man favored her a strange look. He closed the distance between them, fire licking up his arms without hurting him. "Why do you want to know?"

Billie Dean smiled, though it was patently fake. "If you're going to kill me, can't I at least know who it is who's going to do me in?"

"Troy," he responded gamely. "Why don't you just give me the pendant? Huh? If you do, I'll let you and your boyfriend there go."

"Boyfriend?" Billie Dean couldn't help but gape. Jett was young enough to be her grandson. "You really are confused. Especially if you think you're getting Samael's medallion. Do you know what will happen if Michael acquires all seven of the relics?"

Troy didn't know the specifics, but he didn't want Billie Dean to know that. "Yeah. He wins. Now hand it over."

"You really want the world to end?"

"Have you looked around lately?" Troy waved an arm to encompass everything. "The world _is_ ending. There's nothing anybody can do to stop that now."

"You're wrong." Billie Dean's voice cracked with emotion.

"I'm _right_ and you know it," said Troy, advancing on her. The fire on his hands burned brighter with the strength of his conviction. "That's why you're running scared. Your god failed you. Mine is just beginning to rise to power."

There was a loud pop and Troy twitched as hot pain lanced his right side. It felt like he'd been hit with a dart or a knife.

"No!" Billie Dean shouted as any chance of talking her way out of the situation dissolved in that fateful instant.

Jett fired the gun twice more, but Troy launched a white-hot jet of fire at him. The bullets melted mid-flight and evaporated. The fireball vaporized the paint off the side of the station wagon and carbonized Jett where he crouched behind the car door. Billie Dean screamed incoherently then turned and ran as fast as her old bones would carry her.

Troy swore and chased after her. "Stop running, you stupid old bitch! Give me the god-damned pendant!"

"Jesus, help me!" she squealed as she stumbled ahead down the cracked blacktop. "Oh, God, please help me!"

Troy caught up with her and kicked at her legs, knocking her down. "Where is it?" he demanded, ripping at her coat. "I'm sick of this shit!"

She screamed and tried to fight him, but he was younger and stronger than she. He got the coat off and tossed it aside. Straddling her, a quick rip opened her shirt, uncovering the seal of Samael. Troy grabbed the pendant and yanked hard, snapping the thin chain that kept it around her neck. He shoved it in his hip pocket.

"There, now," he smiled triumphantly. He patted her cheek roughly. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

He got off of her then and kicked her coat over to her. She hesitated, then pulled it over herself. It was very cold out and she was quickly starting to feel the effects.

"You don't know what you've done," she said numbly.

Troy rolled his eyes. "What-the-fuck-ever. Michael wants you dead. I'm giving you a chance. You should be kissing my ass, you crazy old bitch."

He walked away then, leaving her hunkered there in her shabby coat, in the middle of the broken road. He got back on his motorcycle and kicked the engine into life, wincing as pain ached through his middle where he'd been shot. Soon he was on the road again, heading back to New 'Salem.

—

"I don't feel right about this," Misty Day said.

The old witch pulled several of her shawls tighter around herself, insulation against her misgivings. When the clergymen first showed up in New 'Salem, they were an innocuous presence. Like many pilgrims, the New World United Church brought their own version of the truth to compare with others. Theirs was that a better day was coming, and it would be spearheaded by a savior they had been seeking for centuries. The church was comprised of the remnants of the Judeo-Christian sect: The Catholics and Protestants, Mormons, and Methodists. All of the God-fearing, Christ-worshipping religions in cooperation.

Their leader, a charismatic man in his early 50s named Simon, had told her the signs said the Redeemer had been born two decades ago but their attempts to track the individual down had been crippled by the decimation of their hometown. 12 years prior, they had found several likely candidates but the person who could have told them for sure had been killed. So they had been forced to wait and hope that the Redeemer would make himself known among the child candidates they rounded up.

Quite the opposite happened: Instead of revealing himself, the one prophesied to save the world had slipped right through their fingers. Troy had gone missing during their initial mission to New 'Salem, following a hazy vision Simon had to take the youth group to the settlement. After the young man vanished, the church group had returned home where Simon was plagued with chaotic dreams of hasty mass exodus and epic destruction. In every dream, Troy factored in whether things ended in peace or disaster. So, Simon and a handful of his most-trusted companions returned to New 'Salem to search for him. That search eventually led them to Misty and the small cult she was nurturing.

Initially she had been nominally in charge of the church downtown since Buck's passing, but as Michael's dark influence warped the congregation, the nature witch had quietly distanced herself from the solidifying power structure within it. There were plenty of people aching to stake their claim on the church, so her absence went unnoticed. Instead, she spent her time mentoring a handful of apprentices who either showed aptitude with life magic or just a great deal of respect and interest. Some were from Buck's original group; the rest were lone individuals who found their way to the group. Misty Day wasn't choosy about who she taught. She believed anyone who wanted to could tap into some level of life magic, if they just kept with it. Life was, after all, a part of all living things.

While she had distanced herself from Michael's church, when Troy returned from his trip with a gunshot wound, she tended to him. Such was her nature to nurture. He was resting in one of the four beds in her healing hut: The right half of a duplex she had claimed for herself and her cause. The young man still had at least a day before her magic would finish its work. Without her near, there was no guarantee it would work at all, so she was reluctant to release the young man to the church group, even if he was their kin.

"We're his family," Simon pointed out. "He should be at home where we can take care of him."

"He's a man," Misty deflected. "You should ask him what he wants."

Simon's lips formed a dour line. "I would, if you would let me see him."

The old witch fussed with her shawls some more. She didn't like the idea of letting one stranger into her hut, let alone three. Simon had brought a man and woman with him, both as serious as him. She had no desire to serve Michael, but she didn't particularly trust these outsiders either.

"I'm sorry, but he needs to rest," the old witch deferred. "Come back tomorrow."

This response incensed the man, but he forced a tight smile. "Fine. Tomorrow morning, then."

Misty watched him and his companions leave. Then she made sure every door and window was locked.

—

The fire that night was devastating. It completely gutted the healing hut, killing the collection of disabled animals Misty Day had adopted. It also killed her, but only because she had been incapacitated by the members of the New World United church. Bound to her bed, the nature witch was helpless against the flames of the zealots. Troy was uninjured, rescued from the blaze by Simon himself. The church leader sedated him before the he could wake, making it easy to fireman-carry him out.

The small church group had their prodigal son back.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

More _The Birds_ influence here, with a hint of _Cujo_ and _Firestarter_. In my story notes, Billie Dean was supposed to die. Not sure why that didn't go as planned. I have a feeling that choice is gonna come back to haunt Troy later...if he survives.

Next chapter, Michael's stealing the show again. It's difficult to summarize a teaser so I'll just say that he's growing into his powers. He's just not singing about it like Elsa does.

This posting comes right before Xmas. It'll be the last one before the holiday so I hope you have a good end of the year and a safe new one. Let's keep the horror stories fictional for 2020.

~ Merry Christmas! ~


	60. E8 Chapter 4 - Bad Dreams

The fire that night was devastating. Starting at the back door of the duplex and fueled by kerosene, the blaze spread quickly through the old building. When Misty Day came hobbling out of the front door with her arms full of the animals she had rescued, she was met by three individuals in heavy firefighter gear, the middle of which shot her in the head with the .44 he was carrying.

Time seemed to slow as the old witch sank to her knees, then fell face first onto the frozen ground. The rabbits and the cat with three legs that she carried scrambled to save themselves. The man holstered the gun and headed inside while one of the others grabbed Misty's body and hauled it back inside the burning building.

They both emerged shortly, supporting Troy, who was disoriented. He didn't have much of a chance to sort things out: As soon as they were clear of the inferno, the firefighter who'd shot Misty Day injected the young man in the neck with a strong sedative. He was unconscious before he could even ask what was going on. Once he was secured, the three loaded him up in their waiting van.

The New World United church had their prodigal son back.

…

To say Michael was in a bad mood would be an understatement of gross proportion. All week, people and things had been getting on his nerves. That worsened when Troy returned to New 'Salem from his Long Beach mission injured. That's when Michael's bad dreams started.

They weren't nightmares like he'd had as a young child. Those dreams were visions of blood and violence and whispering monsters in dark places. These recent visions were harder to comprehend, trickier to remember, and more disturbing because of that.

The nightmare he had the night that Troy came back from hunting Billie Dean, Michael's dream started in a mundane fashion, set in some other survivors' encampment yet it felt like home the same way New 'Salem did. Everything was fine at first, but a caul of impending doom hovered over the place, leaving Michael with a growing sense of urgency the longer he was there. Some sort of violent storm or monstrous wave was coming that the group there was unprepared for. Swift, organized action was called for but impossible to muster. Michael was left fending for himself as the place was assaulted with fire and hideous creeping monsters. In that dream, he was forced to crawl up into the ceiling just to get out of the overrun place.

In another dream, it was a similar setup: Impending doom in a rundown location, only this time he had Mother Constance and Father Jeremiah with him. Tate was there too, and so were the newborn twins. Everything was fucked up because Michael wanted them all to stay hidden in a safe bunker he'd secured for them, but Jeremiah insisted on going out to look for other survivors and Tate just kept leaving. Worse: Every time Michael would get him back inside, something would happen, and Tate would run off again while Michael's attention was occupied. In that dream, his safe place was destroyed, and he had to flee in an RV with the twins and some young girl he picked up along the way to carry the babies for him.

In the present nightmare, he dreamt of the fire that engulfed Misty Day's dwelling and the van that was heading quickly away from the blaze, toward the perimeter walls of New 'Salem. Michael knew, in the omnipresence of dreams, that Troy was in the van, unconscious. He also knew there were three other people in the van from New World United. He knew their intent and purpose, and their fear.

They thought they were right. That's what made them so dangerous: They had the power of faith behind their actions. They truly believed they were doing good and that Troy would be grateful once they had cleansed him of the evil influence his stay in New 'Salem had on him. They believed Troy was their redeemer, the embodiment of the second coming of Christ. He would save humanity, pull it back from the brink of destruction and restore the old order of things.

It was a sick joke on the sect: Troy was conceived to serve darkness, and his enculturation was nearly complete. Michael was tempted to interfere with the group's escape because he was in a bad mood and wanted to hurt someone. They'd made themselves easy targets. He showed restraint only because he understood that the False Prophet would do even more damage to their group if he was allowed to return to their larger congregation. Troy was the key to the downfall of the last Christian church of the world, and he was exactly where he needed to be.

Michael woke from the dream frustrated and actively angry. He didn't like having to restrain himself, even if it did bring him closer to his goals. In the groggy mindset of near-sleep, he envied dream-Tate his wanton lack of discipline—the freedom to come and go, to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without serious consequence. No one expected anything of him.

Suddenly enraged, Michael sat up and lashed out, knocking the lamp from the bedside table with a violent sweep of his arm. It hit the hardwood floor and put a dent in the boards. The heavy gilded lamp base was undamaged but the shade broke. The young man sat up and swung his legs out of bed. Planting his bare feet on the floor, he propped his arms on his knees. He was nude but the heat he gave off was more than enough to combat the winter chill. He was the heat source in the room.

"Fuck!" he swore, though it did nothing to vent his frustration.

He tried to orient on what he needed to do that day, but his plans eluded him. There was instead a bloated sense of futility about everything. He knew there was some grand conclusion, some major change that was supposed to come eventually, somewhere in the future. He knew he was supposed to help instigate it. But there was no beaten path, no clear road to follow, no final goal. There was just a yawning blank void where a finish line of some sort should logically be.

He had a gut feeling everything would be just fine if he could just figure out the right steps to this bizarre cosmic dance. He would be a prince, wealthy and loved, famous and rich in all ways a person could be. Life would be a blissful dream, filled with satisfaction and pleasure. But there was an equal, very real sense that if he didn't get it right, things would continue to devolve into an ever-worsening living nightmare. Nothing would stabilize. Chaos would reign and he would be left just another faded phantom lost in the fog of pointless eternity, existing to exist.

He sprang to his feet, trying to physically put distance between himself and the unnerving flash of what things might be like if he failed. He realized in that moment that he couldn't allow doubt in. He could feel the essence of the universe shifting with that doubt, polarizing to it. In a world where he could reshape reality with his thoughts, he had to believe in himself. He couldn't afford self-doubt. If he believed he would fail…he would fail. So he had to believe he would succeed, even if he still didn't know what he was trying to succeed at.

He raked his hands through his long hair, pulling it back into a loose ponytail. He didn't have anything to fasten it with, so he just kept tugging and smoothing it, feeling the strands move through his fingers. The strands were real. He could feel them. Even when he shut his eyes and stopped breathing, he could still feel the strands. His hair was real. He was real. There was something tangible out there he could believe in, a path beneath his feet he could walk on; one that starred him as the main character, where he could find the sense of belonging he had never known but had longed for since birth. There must be an order to things, even if he had to force it on the universe. The ordinary people had their chance to do things their way and they screwed it all up. Now it was his time to do things his way.

He felt wetness hit his chest. He opened his eyes and fat tears fell from his lashes. He sniffled but that only made the leaking from his eyes worse. He smudged a hand over one eye but again that just made things messier. He hated crying. Even when it was silent and he didn't have to choke down the weird sounds the impulse made, it still sucked. He didn't understand why faces did that. In a way it gave him a little sliver of comfort, though. Like the tangibility of his hair, he couldn't deny the reality of his state or the inconvenience the mess of tears and snot made. He didn't choose the reaction, it chose him. It was real.

He went to the bathroom to blow his nose and decided to shower while he was at it. Being clean always made him feel better. He turned the water on and went over to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror there. He was surprised to see two thin lines between his brows. He forced himself to stop frowning but the skin remained dented from all the frowning he'd been doing. He smudged the area with his thumb, ironing the skin smooth again. It was similar to what he'd seen Constance do to herself after she died, only she had no physical body. What he manipulated was flesh and blood. It never even occurred to him that such an adjustment was abnormal. To him, it was simply correcting a minor flaw, the same as if he'd wiped a bit of food away.

The building suddenly let out a shuddery groan and the pipes rattled in the walls. The water shut off. Michael's frown came back and he went over to the tub. Fiddling with the knobs did nothing. He frowned harder. He didn't understand why the water wasn't working like it should. Angry all over again, he kicked the tub. It made a satisfying sound and the side caved inward from the force, but the water didn't come back on.

He let out an incoherent yell then, pumping all of his recent frustration and unhappiness into the bellow of rage. The walls trembled, and plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling. The lights flickered wildly for a few seconds then the moment was past, and he was left panting from the exertion of releasing the bottlenecked emotion. In the mirror, his hair was puffy with static electricity and he could see a dim red light still glowing in his eyes. He had never seen himself while he was upset before. It was strange to see and had the effect of distracting him out of his foul mood briefly.

Then he remembered the water and got irritated again, though it was nowhere near the epic level he'd just reached. The townspeople probably thought another earthquake had hit. Leaving the bathroom to go find some clothes, Michael knew he needed to find someone who would tell him where the source of the water was. He knew only a little about the municipal system of LA, but he knew enough to know there was some sort of building in the city where the water came from. If he could find it, he could figure out a way to make the water come back.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

Trivia bit: _Bad Dreams_ was the name of a 1988 horror film set in an asylum, starring Jennifer Rubin as a mental patient. Rubin also starred in _A Nightmare on Elm Street part 3 Dream Warriors_. She played a mental patient in that too, one of the last of the Elm Street children.

So. Folks who are reading this as it's posted may have noticed that I retooled the end of the last chapter to be the start of this chapter. I wasn't fond of the rush job I did on the fire so I wanted to correct that with a second pass. It deserves a little more attention.

As for the rest of the chapter, I have to admit the water thing wasn't in my original story outline. I'm a big fan of _Life After People_ (and similar shows) though, so I couldn't help thinking about what might be happening with the water by that point. It also makes a great way to slip in some more water-related horror. What kind of horror? You'll have to tune in next time to find out.

Have a happy new year!


	61. E8 Chapter 5 - Water of Life

Michael stood at the edge of the giant open-topped metal vat, peering down into the murky blue-black depths. There was water in the plant's system, but the recycling mechanics had failed. The Los Angeles-Glendale Reclamation Plant was still; the only sounds were the creaking of metal as it settled and the caw of the large black birds that followed the Antichrist around.

"Can you fix it?" Michael asked the man standing next to him.

Dr. Hugo looked down into the still waters as well. The Chinese-American man had his degree in engineering, with a minor in ecology, but the plant was beyond his scope of knowledge. "I wouldn't even know where to begin," he admitted, straightening. "This is a very complex machine."

Michael sighed irritably. "Yes, I know it is. That's why I need HELP."

He paced the walkway, noticing that local birds had made several dozen nests along the edge. Most of the birds were gone but there were a few stubborn tenants. Some didn't even look like birds but some sort of twisted bird parody, more akin to the prehistoric toothy Pteranodon than the sparrows and pigeons they competed for turf with.

Michael growled his frustration and stalked back over to the nearest murky water tank. He was tired of setbacks and having to constantly fix things that shouldn't be broken in the first place. If this was what being god was all about, he was starting to think maybe he didn't want the position. But glaring his hatred at the broken-down reclamation plant wasn't getting anything done. Looking around, he saw the Los Angeles River over to his left. The plant was perched partly over the river. He could sense the living things in the cold water. While there were some surprisingly large and beastly things down there, there was nothing there that could help him.

But it gave him an idea.

Freeing his thoughts from his body, he raced down the river, toward the sea. He was one with the water, cold and fluid, moving almost as fast as he could think. It was a wild, wonderful, wet ride; it was like shifting through space only he didn't have to know his destination in order to get there. In just a few seconds he was off the coast of Long Beach and headed out among the bigger aquatic creatures in Queensway Bay. The water didn't feel as cold out there as it did inland. It was salty and a comfortably cool temperature that felt good all over, inside and out. It was so tranquil and comfortable, it was tempting to remain that way, under the waves. The bad dreams and life's uncertainties couldn't touch him out there. Nothing could.

But he knew he still had work to do. If he stopped now, it would be the same as giving up, which would render everything he'd done so far with his life completely pointless. Self-pleasure was nice, but it wasn't his endgame. Wasting no time on regret, he rallied his strength and found what he was looking for. In a few moments, his consciousness reunited with his body.

Snapping back to himself, Michael saw Dr. Hugo staring at him in obvious concern. Michael felt blood running from his nose and hastily pressed his sleeve over it. Then the ground started to shake.

"We should get down," he advised the doctor. In hindsight, he probably should have thought of that sooner, but it was too late now.

"What's happening?!" Dr. Wong wanted to know as they ran for the scaffolding. He had to holler because the shaking was causing the whole metal structure to vibrate and clatter like an untuned set of tubular bells.

"Green energy!" Michael shouted back.

There wasn't time for a better explanation, or for the stairs. Grabbing the older man's elbow, Michael shifted them back down to the ground where the car was. That wasn't far enough, he knew.

"Get in!"

He didn't wait to see if the man would obey but hopped into the Lamborghini and fired it up. Dr. Hugo scrambled in on the passenger's side and managed to pull the door shut as Michael floored the gas pedal. A cloud of dust went up as they peeled out of the parking lot.

The doctor twisted around in the seat to look back, still not sure what they were running from. As they sped away from the structure, he could see what looked like a giant wave rolling up the river, moving fast enough to wash away boats, sheds, and anything on shore that wasn't bolted down.

"What is it?!" Hugo had to know.

Michael glanced in the rear-view mirror at the swelling black wall of water. "The Leviathan."

"The what?"

Behind them, the wave crashed into the water plant. Instead of the expected destruction, however, the water snaked over it like a blanket, moving in ways water had no right to move.

"A-ya!" the doctor exclaimed. "The water..!"

"It's not water," Michael insisted. The man's shock was growing tedious. "It's a water _demon_. It's going to power the plant for us."

They whipped around a steep corner past the zoo entrance and out of sight of the utility plant. They could still feel the tremors of whatever the creature was doing to the water facility in its hostile takeover. Dr. Hugo shifted so he was seated correctly and then looked at Michael, his eyes huge.

Michael could feel his attention and liked the control it empowered him with. "You're going to be the new keeper of the water plant," he decided.

"Me?" blurted Hugo. "But I don't know anything about water plants! I told you—"

"And you know nothing about demon sea serpents," Michael interrupted, using the condescending tone Mother Constance had used on him as a child when he was being a tedious burden. "So you have a lot to learn, don't you, doctor?"

He sent a meaningful glance the man's way that let him know that there wasn't going to be any negotiation or refusal accepted. Michael needed someone to tend the beast he'd just enslaved, and he didn't have the time or desire to do it personally. The man seemed to deflate as he accepted his fate, which made the Antichrist smile.

"Cheer up," he said consolingly. "Nobody else knows more than you do. You're already a local expert just having seen it! Learning how to feed and manage it should be easy for a PhD."

Dr. Hugo didn't know what to say to that, so he just sank lower in his seat. Michael smiled bigger and turned on the local radio station, just in time to catch the beginning of Tom Cochrane's "Life is a Highway".

…

Tate wandered down the rocky path to the secluded patch of beach he liked to think of as his. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, he split his attention between the path ahead and the shoreline. Fog swirled over the sand and the waves equally, fully covering everything but not thickly. He could move freely but he could also see quite a distance that afternoon. When he got down to the sand he noticed that most of it was still covered in snow. He never imagined he would see snow in Los Angeles or on a beach.

He paused near a small blue-white drift and stuck his fingers in, wondering if there was enough to craft a snowball. Violet had stayed behind to talk to her parents about something, but she said she would join him when she was finished. It would be fun to pelt her with one when she came down. The stuff was too wet to compact into a proper ball though.

"Hell must've frozen over," he quipped, letting the mushy stuff dribble from his hand.

With no one around to appreciate his wit but the rolling waves of the ocean, he lost interest in the snow. As he moved closer to the surf, he noticed he could see further out than he had in a while, even at Halloween. He found himself a large flat rock to sit on and wait for Violet. Normally he would sit on the sand, but it was abnormally damp from the weather. He didn't want a wet butt. He could resist the damp effects if he really wanted to. It would be resisting his own belief in his realness though, so he generally avoided things like that when it wasn't necessary.

He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped both arms around them. He hoped Violet would get there soon. He didn't want to get too lost in his thoughts. Too many weird things had happened lately that he didn't understand, things he was pretty sure he didn't want to understand. Things like Patrick crying the other night, or the strange incident with Dr. Harmon at the beginning of the week. Stranger things than usual were happening at Murder House, which was why Tate and Violet decided to meet on the beach.

Despite not wanting to get lost in his thoughts, there was nothing else to do and Tate couldn't just not think. He tried drawing in the sand with his finger but that was hardly distracting. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Violet was anywhere in sight and startled when he saw several shadow people standing on the beach behind him, all in a silent row.

He scrambled to his feet and faced them, fists clenched in case they tried to jump him. But they just stood there. Silent. The mist swirled around them, so he knew they were there and not something he was imagining.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

They didn't move. None of them spoke.

Unnerved by the silent treatment and irritated by it as well, he bent to grab a flat beach stone. He tossed it and caught it, feeling its heft as he straightened again. "I know Hollywood's fresh out of celebrities but you dickheads have got to stop following me around," he said with false flippancy. "I don't do autographs."

With that, he lobbed the rock at the nearest one of the shadow people. He really put some curve and speed into the pitch. He wanted to see the thing's porkpie hat fly off. The stone struck and bounced harmlessly off the creature's head, landing in the sand nearby. The hat stayed put.

Tate gave the line of dark figures new appraisal. They were effectively cutting him off from physical access to the steps that led off the beach. They were between him and Violet. He could see her up on the bluff, heading for the stairs. She hadn't seen the shadow people yet. Taking a step to the side, he tried to shift himself to her side of the wall of cloaked figures. It was quite a surprise when he just took a step to the side. He was still between the shadow people and the ocean.

In order to get to Violet, he would have to cross that line of hat men.

* * *

Author's Note:

Happy new year!

At least it is at the time of this writing. In this fanfic series, 2020 was the year the world started to come to an end. If you look at the last chapter of American Horror Story Season 1.5 E12, it was posted in 2014. We've finally caught up to where the story was at 5 years ago.

I figured for the first chapter of the year I'd bring things in with a fun bang. Dr. Hugo's a DC Comics doctor who works at Arkham. He's played by BD Wong on Gotham, and I love BD Wong, so I borrowed his name and likeness for my story. Who better to ride herd on this madhouse? Also: Water of Life in the Christian sect refers to the Holy Spirit. Apparently there's also some connection to the Water of Life and New Jerusalem in Christian and Jewish holy documents but I'm not sure what. I only just learned there was a New Jerusalem in scripture. I named the one in this story after 'Salem, Mass. I'll have to look into this Biblical New Jerusalem...

So, will Tate break on through to the other side? Was that a vague nod to my Asylum fic? Maybe! We'll find out next time.


	62. E8 Chapter 6 - High Tide

Tate wandered down the rocky path to the secluded patch of beach he liked to think of as his. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, he split his attention between the path ahead and the shoreline. Fog swirled over the sand and the waves equally, fully covering everything but not thickly. He could move freely but he could also see quite a distance that afternoon. When he got down to the sand he noticed that most of it was still covered in snow. He never imagined he would see snow in Los Angeles or on a beach.

He paused near a small blue-white drift and stuck his fingers in, wondering if there was enough to craft a snowball. Violet had stayed behind to talk to her parents about something, but she said she would join him when she was finished. It would be fun to pelt her with one when she came down. The stuff was too wet to compact into a proper ball though.

"Hell must've frozen over," he quipped, letting the mushy stuff dribble from his hand.

With no one around to appreciate his wit but the rolling waves of the ocean, he lost interest in the snow. As he moved closer to the surf, he noticed he could see further out than he had in a while, even at Halloween. He found himself a large flat rock to sit on and wait for Violet. Normally he would sit on the sand, but it was abnormally damp from the weather. He didn't want a wet butt. He could resist the damp effects if he really wanted to. It would be resisting his own belief in his realness though, so he generally avoided things like that when it wasn't necessary.

He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped both arms around them. He hoped Violet would get there soon. He didn't want to get too lost in his thoughts. Too many weird things had happened lately that he didn't understand, things he was pretty sure he didn't want to understand. Things like Patrick crying the other night, or the strange incident with Dr. Harmon at the beginning of the week. Stranger things than usual were happening at Murder House, which was why Tate and Violet decided to meet on the beach.

Despite not wanting to get lost in his thoughts, there was nothing else to do and Tate couldn't just not think. He tried drawing in the sand with his finger but that was hardly distracting. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Violet was anywhere in sight and startled when he saw several shadow people standing on the beach behind him, all in a silent row.

He scrambled to his feet and faced them, fists clenched in case they tried to jump him. But they just stood there. Silent. The mist swirled around them, so he knew they were there and not something he was imagining.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

They didn't move. None of them spoke.

Unnerved by the silent treatment and irritated by it as well, he bent to grab a flat beach stone. He tossed it and caught it, feeling its heft as he straightened again. "I know Hollywood's fresh out of celebrities but you dickheads have got to stop following me around," he said with false flippancy. "I don't do autographs."

With that, he lobbed the rock at the nearest one of the shadow people. He really put some curve and speed into the pitch. He wanted to see the thing's porkpie hat fly off. The stone struck and bounced harmlessly off the creature's head, landing in the sand nearby. The hat stayed put.

Tate gave the line of dark figures new appraisal. They were effectively cutting him off from physical access to the steps that led off the beach. They were between him and Violet. He could see her up on the bluff, heading for the stairs. She hadn't seen the shadow people yet. Taking a step to the side, he tried to shift himself to her side of the wall of cloaked figures. It was quite a surprise when he just took a step to the side. He was still between the shadow people and the ocean.

In order to get to Violet, he would have to cross the line of hat men.

—

Violet wasn't paying attention to what was down below. Her thoughts were still on the argument she'd had with her mother before leaving the house. The subject had been Michael. Vivien didn't like to talk about him, but Violet had to know what she thought about the new twins, and broaching that subject inevitably brought Michael's name into the mix. Things had spiraled downward from there.

Violet's encounters with the Antichrist were rare enough to count on the fingers of one hand. She didn't trust the vibe he gave off or his intentions, but she could tell there was more to him than crusty old religious prophecies and blood sacrifices. He held answers to the things that were going on, she was sure. Her mother couldn't care less. She wanted nothing more than to pretend she had nothing to do with Michael's birth and Violet wasn't cruel enough to shove in her face the fact that Michael wouldn't even exist without her.

After a long, heated, and ultimately fruitless debate, Violet had finally abandoned ship. She didn't want to keep Tate waiting too long. She was readying to call down to him when she reached the rickety stairway that led down the bluff to the beach. The words died on her lips when she saw the shadow people all in a line on the beach.

Violet, who had never seen one of the inky entities before, was put in mind of carnival barkers. The hat shaped outline atop their heads resembled the porkpie hat the carnies of the 1920's used to wear when trying to rope in customers for the side show. They had no other distinguishing features. They were simply dark forms rowed up on the frozen sand.

A cold wind whispered up the shore, silent under the roll of the nearby waves. The icy air would have chilled her if she'd been alive; she wore no coat and the thin, baggy gray sweater she wore was hardly proof against the winter. She wasn't inclined to let the elements distract her, though, so she simply didn't let the cold touch her. She started to call to Tate, to let him know she was there for him, but she hesitated. She didn't want to attract the attention of whatever had him hemmed in with his back to the surf, without knowing what was going on first.

She made it down to the landing that switched the steps back midway down the bluff where she paused. Through the fog, she could see a large wave rolling in. It was easily hip-high; twice as tall as the waves it chased to shore. Violet was no ocean expert, but the size of the wave was significant enough to make her wonder what caused the aberration. One more thing that didn't sit right with her about the whole situation.

"Tate," she called, forgoing stealth. "C'mon. Let's get out of here."

"I'd love to," he responded with a crooked grin. He kept his eyes on the line of imposing shadow people. "But I seem to be stuck."

"Just shift over here," Violet encouraged impatiently.

"Tried that already."

Violet frowned and headed down the rest of the stairs, to the sandy beach. Stepping off the weathered wood deck, the wind grew suddenly sharper and tugged at her hair. She could smell the briny scent of the ocean strongly on the cold air. The hip-height wave rushed ashore, bringing seaweed and bits of driftwood in with it. The force of the wave staggered Tate. Violet wondered why he let it push him at all.

"Just walk between them," she called to him as she trotted down the snow-capped sand. "They can't hurt you."

Tate wasn't so sure of that. Eyeing the nearest shadow men, he moved forward cautiously, hugging himself against the icy cold that accompanied being half-drenched. It didn't occur to him to try to disbelieve in the discomfort. His attention was wholly focused on the mysterious figures as he passed between them. There was a tense moment as he came parallel to them. The two nearest entities towered over him like dark pillars. They felt like nothing. They smelled like nothing. They made no sound or motion.

With another step, he was on the other side. Though Tate was braced for anything, nothing bad happened. Another large wave rolled in, but he was able to easily outpace it. He hurried up the beach with wide, loping steps that carried him the rest of the way to where Violet was waiting for him near the stairs. He grabbed her in a hug and turned his head so he could look back at the line of shadowy backs and hats.

"What are they?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. Then he looked at her, brows high. "You've never seen them before?"

"No. Have you?"

Tate looked back at the line. They were still just standing there. Somehow, that made them even creepier to him. "Yeah. Here and there. Just one at time, though. Never a whole bunch of them. Nothing like this."

Another big wave came rolling in through the fog, bigger than the last two large waves. This one was nearly as high as Violet's chest when in hit the shore. It thinned out as it rushed up the sand, but it swept the snow from the beach and made it halfway up the sandy alcove.

"Something's not right," Violet muttered.

"No shit," Tate grinned, finding her comment inappropriately amusing. He thought she was trying to be funny, but the grim look she gave him killed his smile.

"Look at the waves," she said, lifting her chin in that direction.

Another large one was chasing the last in. The shadowy hat people continued to stand there, unnaturally impervious to the water that swirled around them. They could have been posts for all the effect the water had. Further out to sea, there was a growing sound of still larger waves that were heading their way. It was like the sound of a stadium audience cheering in the distance, growing louder with each passing second.

Violet was torn. Part of her wanted to stay and watch what she could hear coming. It was an intimidating but impressive sound. But another part of her wanted to shepherd Tate back to the mansion. After seeing the water push him around, she wasn't confident he was safe there. He couldn't drown, she knew, but somehow that reassurance just didn't set her at ease.

"Let's get higher up," she compromised. Grabbing his hand, she headed for the stairs.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

I listen to a lot of Graham Plowman's compositions on YouTube when I'm writing. His music is very good for writing (and reading) American Horror Story. It sounds a lot like stuff you'd hear on the show. So much so that I've approached him about using some of his music in a short horror film I'll be making later this year. More on that later as things develop.

The title of this chapter is coincidentally shared by a "Two-Sentence Horror Story" on YouTube.

Next time: Violet and Tate's beach date continues.


	63. E8 Chapter 7 - Tall Tales and Legends

Once up on top of the bluff, Violet and Tate looked down on the beach from the scenic viewpoint. They didn't need the coin-operated viewfinder to see the large wave that crashed into the shore below. It was so huge, it pushed back the fog as it rolled in. Black water covered the whole beach for a few seconds then retreated again, leaving the pale sand studded with broken wood and chunks of colored plastic and glass. And still the hat men stood there.

"Okay, that's just fuckin' creepy," Tate observed. He was starting to actively dislike the shadow people, even as he was taking mental notes on how to copy their act.

Violet put an arm around his waist and leaned against his side. The wind picked up again and she let it tug at her hair. To her, it felt good. Exhilarating and icy. The presence of the hat men on the beach didn't bother her, though they were admittedly weird. She suspected they had something to do with the increasing waves but what or why was beyond her ken.

"What do you think they're doing?" she speculated.

Tate put his arm around her shoulders. "Jerking off."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged the corner of her mouth. Another wave came crashing in below, bigger than the last. It submerged the sandy alcove and the first few steps that led up the bluff. Violet's smile faded into a thoughtful frown as she watched the water swirl above the heads of the hat men then recede. The waves were coming in faster, stronger. The next couple also brought in bigger debris, with the last depositing a badly dented motorcycle on the beach.

"Holy shit," Tate breathed when he saw the twisted blue and black metal. "Maybe it's a hurricane."

Violet blinked, her thoughts immediately rushing back to Long Beach. "Shit. Maybe."

The giant waves came crashing in one on top of the next, loud and fierce, battering the side of the bluff relentlessly. The wind picked up too, rising from a whistle to a howl. The hat men could no longer be seen; the water level had risen so that they were covered even when the tide pulled out. One after the other, the mighty waves slammed into the shore, spraying the overlook with cold mist.

In a shockingly short amount of time, the waves were crashing at their feet. The fog retreated from the violent onslaught, forcing the ghosts to retreat as well. The force of the storm was a truly impressive magnitude.

"How far inland do you—" Tate started but Violet grabbed his arm and yanked hard, catching his attention.

"Look!" was all she could get out. She pointed wildly out to sea.

The fog had cleared a good distance and while it was dark, there was enough moonlight shining through now to make out the outline of a tremendous figure offshore. Bipedal, it moved with steps so huge it took a good five seconds just to shift one giant toad-like leg in front of the other. It was too dark to make out features, but the slippery wet creature must have been at least eight stories tall. It was the cause of the waves. Each step it took forward pushed another giant wave outward. It stopped for a moment and swiveled its disproportionately large head about on a serpentine neck, acting as if it scented something on the raging wind. Then it surged ahead, sending another monstrous wave their way.

"Whoa," Tate breathed as ice-cold water rushed in around his ankles. "Not a hurricane."

—

"I don't have time for this nonsense," Constance interrupted, crushing her cigarette out in the ashtray.

Tate looked wounded. They were at her house and he'd just spent the last half hour trying to relate his recollection of the experience to her. "It's true! Ask Violet!"

"Violet," Constance exhaled smoke from the last drag of her dead cigarette. "Is hardly a trustworthy advocate for your lies." She reached over and smoothed his hair back from his broody face. "Go play, sweetheart. Mama's busy."

And she was. Michael was convinced an attack was coming soon, that it had something to do with the fire at Misty Day's house and Troy's disappearance. She had preparations to make. She didn't know or care why Tate wanted to sell her on Loch Ness monster stories except that he knew she didn't have time for him right now. He never handled competition for her attention well.

Tate could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with her, which hurt his feelings more. "It's true," he sulked and stalked out of the kitchen.

He made sure to slam the front door nice and hard before disapparating back to the Montgomery mansion. He holed up in the basement, under the table where the world couldn't reach him. He hugged his knees and picked at his sneaker and hoped a Cthulhu-creature would come and step on his mother's house.

…

It was late but the lobby of the old hotel was lit with candles and firelight. Michael sat in one of the white wingback chairs near the firepit, his black suit and shiny shoes a stark contrast to the pale upholstery. His expression was nearly as dark as his outfit and he rubbed his chin, stewing privately.

Sitting to his right was Constance, with Jeremiah beside her. Both were watching the Antichrist brood. They had been in discussion for hours. Most of their supporters had retired long ago, exhausted by preparations for something they couldn't even guess at. The settlement was fortified, the seven walls shored up, with the outermost wall fitted with ballistas crafted by one of New 'Salem's resident families.

For a while the only sound in the room was that of the wood in the firepit crackling and snapping. Then there came a disturbance outside: A vehicle's engine roared up outside, car doors slamming soon after. The double doors swung open with force and a man decked out in the designated garb of the wall patrol burst in. He cast about wildly before catching sight of Michael, who was just beginning to stir from his dark ruminations.

"My Lord," the man said, hurrying that way. He attempted to bow as he did so, nearly tripping himself. "It's Troy."

Open interest lit Michael's sharp features. "What about him?"

"He's here."

Those last words came from the doorway. Troy was indeed there. He wore a plain white t-shirt and a pair of ill-fitting jeans belted on with an extension cord. The work boots he wore were likewise sized for someone larger than him. He had a nasty bruise on his left cheek that ran from the corner of his eye down to his jaw, but he was smiling smugly as he came in. He carried a black plastic bag in one hand as he swaggered over to the group.

"So he is," Michael smiled. "Welcome back to the fold."

"I've brought you a gift," said Troy.

He carried the black grocery-sized sack over to Michael's chair but rather than hand it to him, he set the thing down a few feet away. There he pushed the bag down so that the contents were revealed to the room. It was a man's head, ghastly and grey, the eyes rolled up at odd angles.

"May I present Bishop Riley," Troy introduced as he straightened, motioning to the head with a grand flourish. "The leader of the now-defunct New World United church."

"That's disgusting," opined Constance, pinching her nose delicately against the smell.

Jeremiah stared at the rotted head. The face was desiccated but still recognizable. He had met the man before, he knew, but it was hard to reconcile that memory with the atrocity on the floor. Troy's self-satisfied expression and Michael's obvious pleasure made the whole scene even more grotesque, like a twisted version of the Renaissance painting of the beheading of John the Baptist. He forced himself to look away so he wouldn't have to decide how to feel about the sight.

"It's brilliant," Michael corrected his grandmother, pride bolstering his tone. "What of the rest of them?"

"All dead," Troy verified without hesitation. "Except the children. I locked them in the basement with a week's worth of supplies. I thought you might want to send a caravan to collect them. There's maybe ten or fifteen of them, babies and middle schoolers."

Constance's brows inched up. "You left a bunch of children out there to fend for themselves?"

Troy shifted his attention to her, his demeanor cooling. He didn't like his victory march being criticized. "I locked them in, with enough supplies to last a week."

For a moment, Constance was so outraged, she couldn't even find words to express her ire. Her nails dug into the arms of the chair she sat in. Her indignation peaked, propelling her to her feet.

"You're an idiot!" she spat. It took all of her control not to slap the young man senseless. She focused on the messenger who came with him instead. "You! Assemble a recovery team to go get those kids. Now!"

The man hesitated to check Michael's reaction, but the blond man offered him nothing. So, the wall patrolman hurried back out of the hotel, to do as Constance instructed. He didn't know where they were heading but he could figure that out after he got the group geared up.

"Such a natural mother," said Michael.

Constance's dark eyes slid his way. She could tell by the subtle twist to his smile that the words were intended to be the barb she sensed. "Suffer the children to come unto me," she said loftily. "God knows no one else on this planet seems to have the skill. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go check on our own little 'miracles'."

The twins had been fussing in tandem for nearly three days, unable to be consoled for long. Their cries had unnerved nearly every ghost in the Montgomery estate. Between their unpleasantness and having to keep Tate and Rose away from them, Constance was worn thin with her own bloodline. Having new children about, ones that weren't spoiled by the darkness yet, would be a welcome breath of fresh air. But for the time being she would return to the house and the relentless demands of Michael's sons.

He watched her go, tempted to get in a parting verbal shot. But the head Troy presented him with was more interesting than baiting her, so he tuned out her departure, and Jeremiah's quiet "good night" as well.

"We should do something with it," he said, perking up at the notion. "Mount it on a pole outside the gate or something equally epic and old school."

"Going for a Vlad the Impaler motif?" Troy grinned. Then he winced because smiling big hurt his face.

"If it works…" Michael spread his hands. "I want anyone coming here to know we won't take shit. From anyone or anything."

Troy nudged the head with his stolen boot. A small beetle scurried out of the dead man's nose and ducked inside his ashen mouth. "Now I'm kind of sorry I didn't grab the heads of the others. Maybe I'll go back with Rowen when he takes the crew to get the kids."

"That's up to you," Michael dismissed without concern. Troy's appearance was disheveled but it was apparent he wasn't truly harmed by his ordeal. "If you do go, make sure they grab the supplies you left, and anything else there that's useful. There's…something. Something's coming. Soon."

Troy gave him a puzzled frown. "What?"

"I don't know," Michael scowled, his good mood deteriorating as he edged back toward the broody thoughts that had preoccupied him before. "I…don't know. Something…big." He rubbed his temple, hating how vague he was being. "I keep having these dreams of something major happening. Dark skies and wind and buildings crumbling and people…people under rubble and…"

He scrunched his eyes shut but trying to focus on the details of the visions only made them flee. He finally shook his head and waved the whole matter off with a restless hand gesture. "Just know that something big is coming down real soon. So get there and get back fast."

Troy nodded. "I've gotta go shower. Find something to eat. You want me to put that somewhere?"

Michael gave the head new regard. "Set it on the check-in desk for now."

"Sick," Troy smiled.

He scooped the bag up and carried it over to the desk where he positioned the head facing the front doors. Anyone coming into the lobby would have that gruesome sight to welcome them.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Disney ran a series of shorts back in the late 80s/early 90s that had the same name as this chapter title. I figured it was appropriate not only to the content of the chapter but as a nod to Disney acquiring American Horror Story when they purchased 20th Century Fox. If it weren't for that merger, there's a good chance you would've been seeing this story as an official graphic novel. As it is, the merger forced the shut down of many prospective projects under Fox's umbrella.

Of course I would've preferred to have the story made canon. The good news is, since the project got grounded, you'll always have free access to this story. It just won't have the awesome pictures I wanted to show you.

Next time: It's the end of the world, as we know it. But that doesn't mean this nightmare's over.


	64. E8 Chapter 8 - Apocalypse Now

Los Angeles is Spanish for "the angels". The city's original name was never more appropriate than it was in the weeks that followed.

The last news reports that came in from abroad were frenzied nonsense about extraterrestrials or angels, demons and djinn. Through the lone channel coming down from the safe zone in Massachusetts they were able to see clips of bizarre video footage featuring strange beings, some dressed in light-sucking armor and some engulfed in flame that didn't burn them. Then there were no more broadcasts.

The world had officially reached Zero Hour.

Across the globe, Titan creatures began to claw and storm their way up from the abyss where they had been locked for centuries, since the time when Biblical giants roamed, and humans were a primordial subspecies. The legends did some of the creatures justice. Others, no primitive words could have described. They prowled into the abandoned cities of man, claiming and destroying whatever they encountered.

L.A. was in the most peril from the creature that birthed the Purple Tide. It was an eldritch thing, an ancient aquatic sea beast that surfaced with great tidal waves and an enormous appetite. It headed for Japan, but the waves it made and the offspring it had spawned came down on the coast so fast, many weren't even aware of the danger until the first wave hit.

The few people who dared to live near the beach saw it first: The way the tide sucked out and suddenly came roaring back in a towering wall. By then it was too late. The gigantic wave crashed inland, taking trees and cars with it. It blasted the beach-side homes and ripped several from their foundations only to crush them into other buildings further inland. Siding pulled apart like matchsticks in the murky, rushing water. Anything living was swept up along with everything else.

The wave made it several feet into the streets before pulling back out again. By then the warning siren system in New Salem was sounding, but there wasn't much anyone could do. Those outside of the settlement tried to flee for the hills. Those within looked to Michael. They came clamoring to the hotel, the majority of the adults in the settlement. They were panicked, needing reassurance and a plan.

It was intense to be put on the spot like that. Standing out on the broad porch of the hotel, Michael felt sick with so many eyes on him expecting miracles. He didn't know what to do any better than the rest of them. The best he had was the stuff Father Jeremiah had taught him, so he fell back on that. Rather than waste time trying to reassure the crowd, he took action.

"Father!" he intoned over the mob and the rushing sound of water in the distance. He lifted his hands above his head for effect, arms stiffly angled up to the black skies. "My Father! Your children and devoted disciples need you! Protect what is yours, our Dark Lord!"

The rushing sound of water was deafening by then; there was no more time. The tsunami was on them, coming down on the city so massively, it covered the horizon. Many people cowered and held each other, sobbing and screaming in terror. A couple of individuals lost their nerve entirely and ran in blind panic. Michael shut his eyes and kept his arms raised while he waited to be washed away.

Seconds slid by and the deafening roar of water continued. There was a great deal of icy wind that yanked at his overcoat and cut right through his thin silk shirt. Michael opened his eyes and looked around. The wind had cleared the fog, allowing a perfect view of debris-cluttered water rushing around and over the walled-in area Michael and his followers had settled. It was like their fences were a barrier against the wrath of the sea.

It was an awe-inspiring sight. Above and all around them, dark water rushed, carrying dead animals and detritus by too fast to identify. Then, as viciously as it had swept in, the wave rushed back out. People began a ragged cheer, but Michael urged them to silence.

"It's not over," he told them. "We should all stay together until the storm has passed."

"How long will that be?" someone asked from the assembled crowd. He wasn't being belligerent; he genuinely believed Michael had special knowledge of such things. And why wouldn't he, after what he had just personally witnessed?

Michael glanced over at Father Jeremiah and Pietre, who were both ready to do whatever he asked of them. "We'll know when it's over," he said, putting his attention back on the crowd. "There will be a sign. We'll have a community meal for supper tonight. Here, in the street," he decided. "Go home and prepare whatever you like best and bring it. Tell everyone. I want everyone in New Salem here tonight, for our tidal Passover."

—

The tidal assault against the west coast continued. The storm of tsunamis lasted for several long minutes before the water finally washed out and didn't come back. The worst was far from over, however. The sky had gone black with fierce storm clouds. Chain lightning jumped from cloud to cloud in brilliant bursts. High above, illuminated by the lightning, the sky was filled with moving bodies. No single entity looked the same, but they were all of a similar origin. They were the djinn, the angels, the celestials.

The war in Heaven was met. The sounds from above were bizarre: Beyond human ken or description. The beings themselves ranged from terrifyingly monstrous to unearthly beauty, though neither was indicative of which side they served. Despite Michael's desire to keep everyone centrally located, many of his followers fled for their new homes in fear after just a glimpse of the creatures through the turbulent clouds. They didn't want the potent entities to know they were there for fear of attracting their wrath.

Late that night, the stars began to fall from sky. In great balls of flame, they fell to the earth like bombs, each hit marked with a brilliant explosion that shook the ground. Seven fell outside the walls of New Salem. Those with the dreaded scout duty sent stories back from the wall about seeing people emerge from at least two of the explosions, fiery individuals that looked an awful lot like the ones seen in the scrambled footage from Boston.

Those beings immediately began brawling with others that emerged from the deepest shadows to attack, armed with swords that sucked up light just like their strange, spiked armor did. When those swords of darkness met the flaming scimitars of the sky-fallen warriors, the sound was deafening and the sight of it so amazing and terrifying, none on the wall could stand to peek out at the action long before fear overcame them. Just looking at the heavenly and infernal beings was enough to terrify most mortal creatures. Witnessing them actively trying to destroy each other was more than man was meant to experience.

There finally came a time of stillness. It was a strange peace: It wasn't a relief but a sense of the world's collective breath being held, waiting for that final shoe to drop. The nations of the world were gone, wiped away by natural and supernatural forces. The last of humanity holed up in mountain bunkers and fortified settlements, spread out so far that they couldn't be sure any other area survived.

In the basement of Murder House, "The Big Rock Candy Mountain" wound down on Tate's old record player. Oblivious to the end of the world outside, he carefully lifted the needle and started to set it down again, then hesitated. On a whim, he picked up the old Victor record, turned it over, and put it back down on the turntable. He set the needle down and tipped his head to listen. Dust on the unused side rattled static through the old speaker.

Then Harry McClintock's iconic voice launched into a new song—one Tate had never heard before.

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

If you're curious, the name of the song Tate is listening to at the end is called "The Bum Song #2". You can find it on YouTube.

 _Apocalypse Now_ is the name of a renowned Vietnam war film, directed by Francis Ford Coppola, who also directed the 1990's _Bram Stoker's Dracula_. It was loosely based on Joseph Conrad's _Heart of Darkness_ (the quote "The horror! The horror!" comes from that novel). The film features an all-star cast, including Marlon Brando, who Tate idolizes in the first season of American Horror Story. Coppola also brought in elements of Werner Herzog's _Aguirre, Wrath of God_ for the film.

There couldn't be a more fitting title for this episode ending.

Next episode: It's a **Brave New World**. Which is also the name of a famous and often-banned dystopian novel by Aldous Huxley.

Scared yet? You should be.


	65. E9 Chapter 1 - Brave New World

_O Fortune, like the moon you are changeable, ever waxing, ever waning. – O Fortuna by Carl Orff_

The old house stood, silent and stoic in the darkness that had reigned over Los Angeles for nearly 72 hours. No insects chirred in the overgrown grass. There was no wind to whistle through the broken, stained glass windows that adorned the rounded front portion of the house. Even the crows, a constant presence around the place, were silent in their roosting spots.

Inside the house, Nora entered the nursery, clutching a lace-trimmed handkerchief and a look of tearful hope. There were two cribs there, and though she only remembered having one baby, she was willing to accept the second, dismissing her confusion without any deep thought put into the matter.

Approaching the nearest crib, she peeked in at the swaddled baby. The sleeping infant looked so angelic and pure that her heart hurt. She clutched her kerchief to her breastbone to stop herself from uttering the cry of joy that welled up inside her. He was so very perfect, her little one. Then she turned to the other crib with anticipation. The sight that met her killed the smile and replaced it with a look of horror.

"His eyes!" she squealed. "What's the matter with his eyes?"

Constance, who had been in the next bedroom over, burst into the room ready to defend her babies. When she saw it was only Mrs. Montgomery, she came down out of battle mode and right into irritation.

"What are you screaming about?" she demanded.

Surprised by the tone, Nora gave the shorter woman a look of pained indignation. "How dare you speak to me that way!" Then, remembering the baby, she turned downright hostile. "What have you done to my baby's eyes?"

"He isn't your baby," Constance said, unsympathetic to the ghost's anguish or memory loss. She pushed between the other woman and the crib to lift Zach, who was crying by then. She saw nothing wrong with him. "And there's nothing wrong with his eyes. He has his father's eyes." She nuzzled the baby and rocked him gently in her arms.

"Charles doesn't have eyes like that!"

Constance favored her an intolerant look. "Charles isn't his father."

Nora found the whole conversation too confusing and upsetting. She looked to the other crib. The baby in it was still sleeping. "Silly me," she said, trying to make sense of everything. "You're right. That isn't my baby. This is my baby."

She reached for the sleeping child, but Constance moved to block her. "He needs his sleep," she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Nora was offended all over again by the woman's impertinence. "I should have my husband fire you for such conduct!"

"Good luck with that," Constance snorted. She transferred Zach to her shoulder now that he was quieting down and rocked him like that. "Now unless you want to assist me in changing this sweet li'l angel's diaper, you might want to clear the room."

Horrified by the thought of even seeing a messy diaper, Nora fell back a step. "I will have words with my husband," she said as a final threat before fleeing the room.

Constance watched her go, then shook her head. "Your great-grandmother is a basket case," she murmured to the baby she held. "Let's hope the gene skips your brother and you."

She kissed him gently on the head and carried him over to the changing table. He fussed a little when she set him down but settled down again when she cranked the music box mobile. His eyes rounded as he tried to focus on the indistinct shapes dancing above him. Eyes with irises that were as black as the darkness outside—as black as the eyes she had seen in her trip to the underworld.

Eyes just like her own son's.

Gabe's eyes were the same way, which Constance counted as a blessing. If either twin had exhibited marked differences from one another, she wasn't sure how Michael would handle it. Since their birth, he had only visited them a few times and never long enough to satisfy her that he wasn't still thinking of hurting them. She didn't particularly want him around to dictate how she should care for the babies, but she would worry less if it looked like he was actually bonding with them.

Once Zach had a fresh diaper, she carried him to the rocking chair where she settled in with him nestled on her left shoulder. The sweet smell of clean baby filled her senses, flooding her with feelings of peace and joy that were off limits to her under other circumstances. She wished they could stay small forever.

Outside, a gray dawn crept slowly over the city, bringing wan light to the nursery windows for the first time in three days. It wasn't a healthy, healing light…but it _was_ light.

It was the first dawn of the new world.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

(( _Music: Edge of Darkness by Graham Plowman)_ )

"Bring forth the heretics!"

The sky above was putrid orange, smothered beneath a thick blanket of ominous clouds. A crowd had assembled at the water plant, with most gathered nearby on the roof of the facility's storage unit. The floodwaters prevented access to the parking lot below.

Along the catwalk where the huge water tanks were, Michael had assembled a coterie of his supporters: Fiona was there, as was Pieter and two of his hollow-eyed triplets. Troy and Jeremiah were at hand as well, as was Dr. Hugo, the keeper of the plant. All were inappropriately dressed for the flooded riverside setting, wearing expensive black clothing that would have blended more with an haute couture fashion show or a rich man's funeral. Fiona even wore a black felt hat with a net veil pulled down over her face.

One by one, five people were strong-armed out onto the catwalk by acolytes from Michael's church. The bound individuals were hooded and dressed in simple, plain gray short-sleeved shifts. It was far too cold for such thin outfits; the cold cut right through them. The men who steered them, by contrast, wore dark grey turtleneck sweaters and red pants so dark, they could almost be mistaken for black. Their hands were covered in black leather gloves and they wore black balaclavas trimmed around the eyes in red. The balaclavas had no mouths.

Once the five prisoners were rowed up along the edge of the nearest water tank, Michael left his group and casually strolled down to where the hooded captives stood trembling, their bound arms held by their guards. The hard soles of Michael's ankle boots tapped severely on the metal catwalk, heralding his approach. He stopped before the first prisoner he came to and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he lifted his chin to that person's guard, signaling he should remove the hood.

The woman whose face was exposed blinked furiously against the sudden daylight. She squinted at Michael and he could see fear in her brown eyes.

"I told you to stay," he said to her, using the same deceptively calm voice Mother Constance used to use on him right before she started hitting him. "But you didn't. You ran."

"I was afraid!" the woman bleated. Michael reckoned she was roughly fifty years old. "We all were! How were we to know the tide could be stopped?"

Michael faked a sympathetic look. "You doubted my powers? After all I've done for you?" He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "O ye of little faith."

He gave another nod to the acolyte behind her. The man, already instructed as to what was expected of him, shoved the woman hard from behind. She gasped and stumbled forward. She teetered on the edge just long enough for Michael to see the funny look of surprise and dawning terror on her face, then she fell into the icy water below.

There was an immediate thrashing as the Leviathan tore her to pieces, consuming her flesh and staining the frothing water red. Over on the nearby rooftop, a cheer went up from those gathered there.

Dr. Hugo looked away, across the river, and tried to divorce himself from the proceedings. He wouldn't have even been there except that Michael had insisted.

The Antichrist moved down the line to the next prisoner, who was trembling quite noticeably. Another nod from Michael and that man's hood was removed as well. He looked about wildly, trying to determine what had happened to the woman who had stood to his right. Spying the churning red waters below, he went white in the face.

"Please," he begged sincerely, looking to Michael desperately. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to run. I didn't!"

Michael clucked his tongue again and feigned that sympathetic look once more. "I know," he said in a soothing tone. He reached out to pet the man's cheek, then ended the surprisingly gentle gesture with a friendly pat. "You're forgiven."

He lifted his chin and the guard gave the man a vicious shove, propelling him into the water tank. The man's scream terminated abruptly, and the water frothed again. The crowd atop the storage unit gave another boisterous cheer.

The third person, another man, was praying when his hood came off. Michael favored him a curious head-tip.

"Are you…praying?"

The man flicked a watery-eyed glance at his inquisitor but didn't stop muttering his confessions. The lack of response annoyed Michael but he bit down on the feeling.

"Do you actually think God is listening?" he said with a sneer. "Do you think He cares what happens to you? God has much bigger problems to deal with…if He even exists anymore."

The man shut his eyes. Tears leaked out but he didn't stop praying.

With a look of utter contempt at the heretic, Michael gave the signal for his guard to shove the guy in. The man didn't stop praying until he hit the water. The crowd signaled their approval with loud applause.

"Moron," Michael muttered under his breath. Then he moved to the next person.

When that woman's hood came off, she was ready for him. "You won't win," she said defiantly. "You came to destroy the world, but God's army will triumph. It is written!"

Michael's lips twisted in a dry little smile and he stepped up into her personal space, so close she could smell the clove smoke on his breath. "The world was already destroyed when I entered it. I came to rebuild it…in my own image."

"That's not your right!" she exclaimed, trying to stall for time.

"Says who?" Michael challenged, suddenly amused by her attitude. "Do you see anyone else stepping up to take charge?"

"Let her go!" the hooded man at the end of the line suddenly broke in. "Please, just let us both go! We'll leave New 'Salem and never return, just please! Let us go!"

Distracted by his heartfelt pleas, Michael moved to him. He plucked the man's hood off himself and leaned in to catch the man's eyes with his own.

"Let you go?"

The man, mistaking the attention for possible clemency, nodded hastily. "Yes. Please. Let us go."

"You want me to just…release you?" Michael asked, spreading his arms as if the man was asking for the whole world.

The assemblage on the nearby rooftop was beginning to get impatient at the delay, hooting and calling for someone to get pushed in.

"Yes," the tied-up man agreed. "I want you to release us. Please. We'll leave right now. I promise."

"Did you hear that?" Michael raised his voice so all could hear. "They want to be released."

The crowd, uncertain about how to respond, both cheered and jeered.

"You heard him," said Michael to the acolytes. "Release them."

The two guardsmen shoved their prisoners hard, sending both into the water tank. Their shrieks of surprise terminated abruptly when they hit the water. A loud cheer went up from the audience.

Most satisfied, Michael turned to them with a smile. He straightened the bow that held his long hair back from his face, then addressed the crowd. "Let it be known that any who try to desert me or turn against me will me a similar fate. And know this! There is NO place to run to. You cannot survive outside of this settlement. New 'Salem IS the world and I am your divine ruler, sent by my Father to shepherd you into the new world. Without me, you will suffer and die."

"We love you, Michael!" a woman on the roof cried out impulsively.

He gave her a little nod of acknowledgement and, sweeping a glance around that encompassed the rooftop group and his close advisors as well, he took his leave of the catwalk. One by one, his black-clad associates followed, with Dr. Hugo bringing up the end, looking ill. The crowd atop the storage unit gave another cheer then they, too, dispersed to go tell everyone back in town what they had witnessed.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

The first portion of this chapter was in part a nod to the film _Rosemary's Baby_ , which I've mentioned before in these notes. It's a gripping movie, dated but somehow still quite unsettling. Part of what it did that impressed me was: You never saw the most horrible thing in the film, yet you got the feeling of how horrifying it was just from the way the actors behaved. That's some seriously good storytelling there. I kind of took that tact with the Leviathan. I believe you'll imagine something far more terrifying than I'd describe. Words would cheapen and confine the beast. Your imagination won't.

Next time: Tate tries to cope with all the changes that are coming down. Easier said than done.


	66. E9 Chapter 2 - Going Out

"Well, that was something," Troy said once the group made it back to the Bradford Hotel.

He flopped into one of the wingback chairs, his pants hiking up to expose the fact that he hadn't worn socks with his fancy new shoes.

Fiona wrinkled her nose at him and seated herself opposite of him, in her favorite chair. She lit a cigarette and gave the young man a longer, more probing look. Noticing her attention, he quirked a smile and ran a hand over his crotch. She rolled her eyes and looked away but not before he caught the hint of a smile in her eyes. She liked it.

Full of himself, Troy lit a cigarette as well. He hadn't liked the cloves at first but had acclimatized quickly.

"It shouldn't have been necessary," Michael grumped. Despite the performance he gave at the plant, he was bothered by the fact that there had been doubters in his midst. It didn't matter that even he hadn't believed he could save them. He wanted nothing less than total faith from his subjects. "What do I have to do to convince these idiots that I know what I'm doing?"

"You can't control a person's fear," Jeremiah put forth. "All you can do is assuage it when it surfaces."

"I can so control fear!" flared Michael. He didn't want to be told what he could or couldn't do. "You saw me out there! They all feared me!"

"You induced fear," corrected Jeremiah. "But you didn't control it. Control implies you could have—"

"I know what I meant!" Michael stormed and the pictures rattled on the walls threateningly.

Recognizing he'd overstepped, Jeremiah held up his hands in surrender and shut up.

Michael, satisfied that he'd made his point, turned his attention to other matters. "We're running low on supplies. Canned goods and medical things. Manufactured shit. We need to get a scavenging party together to see if there's anything out there worth bringing back."

"I'll go," Troy volunteered. "I've been wanting to know what things look like on the outside now."

Michael thought about it then nodded. "Fine. Just be more careful this time. We can't have you coming back shot every time I send you out."

"That happened _once_ ," Troy muttered.

"Let's keep it that way," Michael volleyed, imbedding an unnecessary threat in the words.

"I'll go as well," said Pieter. "And Meg, too. She needs a little exercise after being under house arrest so long."

Alec and Tisi exchanged worried glances behind him. They hadn't seen their sister in days. Not since Pieter had learned she assisted Desiree in setting Kyle and Zoe free. Sensing their concern, Pieter turned his head to address them.

"Now, children," he soothed. "Don't be jealous. I'm sure Meg will share her adventure with you when she returns."

His words didn't address their true concern but the underlying reassurance in his tone drove the looks of concern from the siblings' faces. They were still worried for their sister, but they knew Pieter well enough to believe him when he said she would return.

It was just a question, then, as to what condition she would return to them in.

…

A strange sound woke Tate.

He stirred under the thick comforter that covered Violet's bed. He tried to ignore the sound, but the low, incessant thrum wouldn't let him. He tried turning his head to block the sound with the pillow, but it only covered one ear. The sound still wormed its way into his other ear.

He shifted again but nothing he did made the noise go away. It was a deep bass sound, rising and falling in an arrhythmic manner that burrowed into his senses and angered him. He hadn't dealt with outside intrusive noises in so long, he couldn't remember the last time a passing car's loud stereo had bothered him. It was only when that long-standing peace was interrupted that he truly appreciated how quiet it had gotten at the end of times.

When the noise became too unbearable, he abandoned the bed entirely, going to the window to peek through the blinds. Parting them with his fingers sent in a knife of jaundiced sunlight. Squinting against the sudden brilliance, he looked down at the street below.

Leaves lined the gutters in thick clumps and the tree across the street had been toppled during the windstorm that had accompanied the flood. Apart from that, there was nothing remarkable outside. Whatever was making the noise wasn't near enough to see.

Warm hands slipped over his middle and up his bare chest, petting gently. He leaned back a little, enjoying the touch.

"What're you looking at?" Violet asked quietly. She tried to get a glimpse but shied away when the light hurt her eyes.

Tate shrugged a shoulder. "You hear that?"

She listened for a moment. "What?"

He frowned. "That…that low noise. It's like…like a car stereo with the bass too loud."

They were silent again, then she said: "Yeah. I do. It's real faint but I hear it." She rested her cheek on the round of his shoulder. "What is it?"

"I don't know," he said. Her long hair tickled his skin, a sensation he didn't mind. "I was just trying to see. I think it might be down in the square."

"Mm," she murmured. "Maybe. Do you want to go see?"

He thought about it. Then he thought about all the people who were likely to be in the marketplace. "Nah," he decided. His thoughts brushed over Michael and he felt an instant irritation he couldn't account for. Trying to pin down its source only made him more irritable, so he abandoned the attempt.

With no further explanation forthcoming, Violet nuzzled his shoulder. "Come back to bed?"

He considered doing just that, even though it was nearly noon. He glanced back at the large bed and the twisted lumps of blanket that provided its topography. One corner of his mouth twitched in a near smile.

"Nah," he demurred again. Then: "What _is_ that?"

The noise had gotten louder, with an added layer of subwoofer that made him want to punch the wall. A low groan from the bed signaled he wasn't the only one annoyed.

"Turn that off," Pat grunted, mistaking the noise for something the teens were playing on the stereo.

"It's not us," Tate said. "It's something outside."

Patrick rolled over and tugged at the sheet that had somehow gotten twisted around his middle. "What is it?"

"D'know."

"It sounds like it might be down in the market square," Violet offered. She kissed Tate's cheek then slipped away to go fetch a cigarette and lighter from her desk.

"It's annoying," opined Pat. He sat all the way up and shoved a pillow between his back and the headboard.

Tate squinted down the street and then finally let the blinds snap shut. Momentarily blinded, he turned away from the window and stood there for a few seconds while his eyes adjusted. "Violet was thinking about going and seeing what it is."

She lit a cigarette for herself and wandered back over to the bed. She sat back down, not bothering to cover her bare body. The room's temperature was comfortable, and she wasn't self-conscious. Not anymore. The three of them had been through too much over the past few months for such a thing to bother her.

"You really should give those things up," advised Patrick.

Violet sent him a quirky smile that treaded on smug. "Not like it'll give me cancer."

"No," he allowed. "But it makes you smell and taste like an ashtray."

"I like the smoky flavor," Tate put in. He grabbed his t-shirt off the floor where he'd tossed it several hours earlier. "Reminds me of Oscar Meyer turkey."

"Gee. Thanks," Violet said, rolling her eyes. "Maybe I _will_ quit."

Tate could tell her offense was just a show, so he didn't let it worry him. Shrugging the shirt on, he came over to claim a quick kiss from those smoky lips. The taste reminded him of his mother only fleetingly. "Mmm. Tobacco fresh."

She snorted a laugh. Tate grinned and went to hunt up his underwear and jeans. The hole in the left thigh had spread till the rest of the leg hung awkwardly when he lifted the pants. Getting them on without tearing them further was a feat but he managed, with some wiggling.

"If you're going down to the square, talk to Chad first," said Pat.

Tate rolled his eyes and shrugged into a striped shirt of his that was wadded up under the desk. "But he always wants me to bring shit back."

"Yeah," said Pat. "And you know he'll be pissed if you go down there without his shopping list."

Tate rolled his eyes again. "I'm not a fucking errand boy."

"Do what you want," Patrick snapped. Between the noise outside and the attitude in the room, his patience was thin ice. "Just don't complain when he bitches at you for the rest of the week about it."

"Whatever," Tate dismissed and left the room.

Pat made an incoherent sound of annoyance, prompting a sympathetic glance from Violet. She went over to the dresser and found herself some clothes. "I think I'll go with him," she said. Then, with another glance back over her shoulder, she added: "I'll ask Chad what he needs before we leave."

"Thank you," Pat said, with no small amount of relief. He knew he'd hear about it otherwise, whether he was involved in the outing or not.

"Need anything?"

"Me?" the jock blinked, then thought about it. "No. But…thanks."

She flicked a quick smile at him then finished getting dressed. She ran a hairbrush through her hair then went to find Chad.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

So. There was a lot more backstory to the last scene of this chapter, but that's all the characters involved would let me share for the time being. If you've been reading stuff for a while, you'll have been through this before. I've got several "stand alone" bits posted that were initially trimmed out of the main story, mostly due to the sensitive nature of the scenes.

I'm not sure if the rest of this particular scene will make it to publication, but I felt it was time to address the elephant in the room where it came to those three. Things are far from perfect with them and that scene is probably the last thing close to peace you'll see in this story for a while. Things are heating up as Michael tries to assert his authority over what's left of the world.


	67. E9 Chapter 3 - Haunted Mansion

The door to the old house creaked open, swinging inward on hinges caked with years of dust. Though the sunlight was wan thanks to the cloud cover, it was far brighter than the abandoned structure had seen in ages. Silhouetted in the doorway, five children stood peering into the gloom. The oldest, Nathaniel, was 13. Robert, his best friend, was 11, as was Ricky. Robert's sister Anabelle was a year younger than them and determined to keep up with the boys. Then there was Lydia, Robert and Anabelle's little sister. She was six years old and tagging along only because their mother wanted them to stay together while she was working.

"Well, come on," Nathaniel urged. He glanced down the street both ways, then motioned the other kids in.

Robert crossed the threshold of the weathered old house first. Ricky was next, then Anabelle. She paused just inside to make sure her sister was following. Seeing the little girl still standing on the porch, she huffed an impatient sigh.

"Come _on_ , Lydia! We're gonna get in trouble if somebody sees us!"

Nathaniel waved her to silence, then crouched down so he could see the younger child's big green eyes. "It's okay. You can stay out here if you want. All by yourself."

Lydia's lashes flared even wider and her brows went up. "Nooo! You can't leave me!" She looked to her sister accusingly. "Mommy said you have to stay with me!"

"Well, I'm going inside," said Anabelle. "If you want to stay with me, you have to come in."

Lydia didn't want to go inside the spooky house. She could see dusty cobwebs and the central hall light had fallen from the ceiling, shattered on the floor so long ago that it, too, was covered in ashen dust. But she wanted to stay out on the porch alone even less. An encouraging smile from Nathaniel helped, but he finally won her over by offering a hand to her. A smile bloomed on her round face and she slipped her hand into his. They entered the house together, following after Anabelle.

Nathaniel pushed the door nearly shut behind them, leaving it open just enough to allow some of the weak daylight into the entry hall. The floor was gritty under their shoes and the air smelled stale and sour from being shut up for so long. Lydia held tight to Nathaniel's hand as she skirted around the broken light on the floor.

Further ahead, the hallway split in two directions, with a dust-covered flight of stairs directly in front of them at the end of the hall. The corridor to the left was dimly lit by indirect sunlight coming from the room to the next left. The right hall was pitch black. The stairs ascended straight up to a landing that was lit by a single, round window high above.

The dust stirred up by their footsteps made Ricky sneeze, startling all of the kids. They giggled nervously.

"Which way do you want to explore?" Nathaniel put to the group.

"Up?" Anabelle suggested. "I want to see the playroom."

She didn't like the looks of the dark hallway to her right and she suspected the better-lit one led to a kitchen. She'd seen enough kitchens in the other abandoned houses to know she didn't want to see that one. If they weren't moldy and infested with nasty critters, they were torn apart by looters scavenging for food.

When no one objected to her vote, Nathaniel motioned for her to lead them up. Ordinarily he would take the lead, but he was still saddled with Lydia.

Anabelle headed over to the staircase and put her hand on the newel post as she looked up the dusty flight. The urn-shaped post cap was loose and almost fell off when she let go of it. She put a foot on the first step and felt a creepy sense of foreboding. Usually, excursions like this excited her. The other times, she felt like an adventurer exploring tombs of yore. This time, she just felt uneasy.

She looked back and took a breath to tell her friends of her misgivings, then hesitated. She couldn't find the words to explain what she was feeling and she knew the boys would just tease her for being scared if she couldn't articulate any valid concerns. So, she simply flashed a smile.

"Last one up is a 'fraidy cat," she said, to be sure they wouldn't think she was scared. Then she hurried up the stairs before she could lose her courage.

The steps creaked loudly and echoed their footfalls in a way that made them all sound heavier, more menacing. Even Lydia's soft-soled, well-worn rubber clogs sounded like hobnail jack boots on the old stairs. The landing was a bit better. A thick carpet smothered their steps but released more dust that turned the air hazy. The light from the round window allowed them to see down the long hall before them.

There were three intersecting hallways that interrupted the main one that stretched before them. Framed paintings lined the walls, but there were no visible doors. There was just the long, dark hallway. At the very end they could just make out a boarded up window, thanks to the midday sunlight that squeezed in between the splintery planks.

"The bedrooms must be down the other halls," Robert theorized.

"Jason said the playroom's down the last hall, to the left," said Nathaniel. He reclaimed his hand so he could take the lead down the spooky hallway. "Follow me."

The other children fell in behind him, stirring up more dust as they went. Ricky sneezed, startling the others. The sound echoed strangely down the halls.

"We should have brought a lantern," muttered Anabelle.

"Why?" Robert challenged. "Are you scared?"

"No!" the younger girl defended. "I just like seeing where I'm going is all."

They passed the first bisecting hall, each child looking this way and that. Each saw what the other did: Darkness. There were no windows, boarded or otherwise, to cut through the shadows. They couldn't even make out the outline of doors. Suddenly Robert didn't find Anabelle's wish for a lantern quite so silly. He didn't say as much, though, not wanting to appear cowardly.

When they reached the second hall, the kids felt a cold draft blowing across the floor. It came from the darkened right-hand passage and smelled musty. Like the last hallway, this one was pitch black on both sides.

"Pee-yoo!" exclaimed Lydia, holding her nose.

"It's not that bad," Anabelle scoffed.

"Is so," said Lydia around her held nose.

"Why's it so cold here?" wondered Ricky.

"Broken window somewhere," dismissed Nathaniel without slowing. He didn't care about musty breezes. He wanted to see the fabled playroom.

The older boy, Jason, had told him about the room and how it held all kinds of toys and diversions: Comics and board games, even a record player. It was Nathaniel's plan to grab that record player and take it home with him. If it actually worked like Jason claimed, it would work if he plugged it in back at the village. He had a few records he'd scavenged over the past months, but the tavern wouldn't let him put them in the jukebox because he wasn't old enough to hang out there. Grown-ups really pissed him off sometimes.

They reached the last hall, where Nathaniel called a halt so he could check both halls. He remembered Jason saying it was the third, to the left, but he suddenly found himself unsure as to whether that meant they should go left here or if the room was on the left side of whatever end of the hall it was on. He decided it meant they should go left, so he headed that way, raising his hand to indicate the others should follow him.

That way was no less dark than any of the other halls they had passed. Just a few steps in, it became impossible to see what lay ahead.

"Shit!" he swore, then remembered Lydia was with them. "Don't repeat that, Lyds."

He waited for her to respond and when she didn't, he glanced back to make sure the little girl wasn't too scared. Only, when he looked back toward the dimly lit hall behind him, there was no one there.

Nathaniel was alone.

His surprise at being abandoned by his friends quickly turned to anger. "Hey, you guys! Not funny!"

He backtracked down the hall. It felt like he had to walk quite a bit further to get back to the main corridor. Stepping out, he glared around, ready to give his companions a piece of his mind for the prank. Except that they weren't out there either.

That was really strange. He was sure he would have heard it if they had run away and the way back was too far for them to get to without running. It was like they vanished.

He looked across the hall, toward the other end of the dark corridor he had just emerged from. Had they ducked down there? They could easily be hiding in the deep shadows there. His irritation renewed and he headed that way, stirring up a cloud of dust.

"Come out, guys," he insisted. Then, to ensure at least one of them would respond, he added: "There's probably spiders and stuff living in the dark places. You don't want spiders to crawl in your ears, do you?"

He expected Lydia at the very least to come bolting out of the shadowed hallway, but only silence answered him. The boy got the distinct impression he was the only living thing in the house. That scared him.

"Fine," he said, injecting attitude into his words to cover his fear. "If you're going to be that way, I'm leaving."

He started back toward the stairs, expecting someone to call to him. They would laugh and apologize; he would bawl them out for a bit, then maybe if they were sorry enough, he might show them to the playroom. But he made it all the way back to the landing without a single peep from the other kids.

He went down a few steps and paused to look back. He felt weird just leaving without his friends. But, he reasoned, they had most likely already left. Why they would do such a thing was beyond him, but he could rationalize no one other reason for their not being there. Unless something in the house had gotten them.

The thought spurred him into motion, and he hurried the rest of the way down the stairs. He tried to tell himself that there wasn't anything to be afraid of. His friends were just big jerks and were having fun at his expense for his leading them into this dark, creepy place. It would serve them all right if he never spoke to any of them ever again.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

Welcome to the new world, where kids are kids and old houses are deadly. This chapter was largely inspired by urban explorers of ghost towns and British horror films like _The Lodgers_. The kids are all named after horror movie personalities: Characters, actors, special FX artists. Lydia in specific is an homage to _Beetlejuice_ and the book _Ghost House_ by Clare McNally. I've been taking in a lot foreign horror films lately. I broke my right ring finger, so I can only write so much at a time. I would take a break but this is my hobby and the way I like to decompress from my hectic life (which is cram-packed full of fun stuff that keeps me going 18 hours a day). If I couldn't write, I'd probably dictate to someone who could.

So, how does this plot twist tie into what's happened so far? You'll have to tune in next time to find out.


	68. E9 Chapter 4 - Baby Mine

_"_ _..I'm nobody's baby now."_

Nathaniel slowed his descent down the stairs when he heard music coming from below. Confused by the sound, he paused and listened. The song was thin, hollow in an old-timey way, which was fitting given the song he was hearing was new in 1927.

As he stood there, the downstairs grew gradually brighter. He could hear voices somewhere in the distance as well. It sounded like several adults chatting happily. Curious and more than a little puzzled, the young teen proceeded down the last few steps and was met with an even stranger sight. The whole downstairs had changed. The dust and debris were gone. The broken hall light was whole and hanging from the ceiling where it should be. Everything looked new and well-tended.

It made no sense. Nathaniel began to wonder if he was dreaming, but everything felt too real to be a dream. Touching the wainscoting, he could feel the grain of the wood. He could smell lady's perfume in the air. He could hear dishes clinking somewhere down the hall ahead.

He followed the sound to a wide, open doorway. Peeking in, he saw an ornate ballroom hosting roughly 15 people within its dark paneled walls. They were all socializing and sipping drinks from narrow glasses with long stems. Their clothes were peculiar, anachronistic for the present day. They looked like real clothes, not costumes. Nathaniel couldn't begin to guess where they had found so many old-fashioned garments that looked so good. Or what would motivate them to put them on and gather at this old house. He realized he didn't recognize any of them either. He knew he wasn't acquainted with every adult in New 'Salem, but he got the feeling none of them were from the village.

A well-dressed man with slicked-down black hair and a pencil-thin mustache was talking animatedly with a small group of the menfolk. One of the men with him, a fellow with bushy mutton-chop sideburns, lit up a cigar with an old-fashioned lighter. A cloud of thick blue smoke swirled up from his mouth and nose when he laughed at whatever the dapper man said.

"You shouldn't be here."

Nathaniel was so caught up in the out-of-place scene, he hadn't noticed the young woman come up from behind him. She was so close to him, he bumped into her when he turned at the sound of her voice. He thought she would be cross with him for trespassing, but she just gave a lilting laugh and put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He could smell the sweet, musky scent of her perfume on her wrist. It made him dizzy.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I—I got lost…"

"Lost?" she laughed. Her laugh sounded funny, but he didn't know why he felt that way. "In your own home? I can't imagine that."

"My..? It's not my home," he stammered, even more confused than before. Why would she think this was his place?

She laughed again. Her lilting laughter contradicted the sad set of her thin, drawn-on eyebrows. Her lips were the color of blood, lips as tiny as a China doll's. Dark hair framed her pale heart-shaped face, set in glossy finger-waves. Her fringed white and gold dress hugged her skinny frame, flowing down to the floor in a cascade of shimmering motion.

"Don't be silly," she said. Then concern clouded her porcelain face. "Do you still have a fever?" She pressed a cool hand to his forehead. "I told Jack we should postpone the party when you took ill the other day. Let's get you some milk and cookies. That will help you relax."

She scooped an arm around his shoulders and urged him away from the door.

The boy let her guide him, trying to puzzle through the situation as they went. His head was swimming, and he wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't dreaming. The idea of milk and cookies was tempting: He hadn't had real cookies in so long, he couldn't remember the last time he tasted one. If this was a dream, he hoped it would last long enough to get the promised snack.

The dark-haired woman led him down a long back hallway lit with the same amber gas lamps Nathaniel saw upstairs. These seemed to be set lower; the light they cast was dimmer and threw darker shadows that danced on the walls where the light didn't reach. When they got to a set of double doors, the lady pushed on the brass plate and the door swung inward. The kitchen was dark on the other side. The boy could see the black-and-white checkered floor where the hall light spilled onto it but nothing more beyond that.

"Where's the light?" Nathaniel asked. He didn't know how the gas lamps worked.

The woman smiled at him and her smile, like her laugh earlier, seemed off. There was a sinister edge to it that chilled him. His interest in the milk and cookies evaporated with that smile. Before he could say as much, the woman used the arm around his shoulders to shove him forcibly into the dark room. He stumbled forward, surprised by such strength in so skinny a woman. He wheeled around on one heel and tried to dart back out, but the door shut before he could reach it.

The room was plunged into blackness.

Starting to panic, Nathaniel rushed forward, hands out. He connected with a solid surface and ran his hands along it. He couldn't find the edges of the door.

"Let me out!" he hollered, trying to sound fierce. "Open up! You can't do this!"

" _Hush little baby, don't say a word_."

He could hear the woman singing somewhere nearby, out in the hall. He focused on it and tried to use the sound to find the door. All he could feel was solid wall.

"Open the door! My mother knows I'm here! She'll come for me."

He heard the woman's lilting laugh, further away, derisive. Then he heard her fading voice sing a new song: " _Above, black ravens wheeling, all of a sudden swooping; my little baby stealing…Sleep, little baby…Sleep_."

The dark room got colder. Nathaniel scrabbled against the wall. He knew the door had to be nearby. It just had to be! Nothing was making sense. If this was a dream, he would have woken from fear by now. But he didn't wake. That meant the situation must be real.

He was about to start calling for help when he heard something behind him in the darkness. Something scraping across the floor. Slow and steady _. Skrrrritch. Skrrrritch._

"Let me out!" the boy screamed, in full panic.

Down the hall, the dark-haired woman with the blood-red lips heard his cries for help dissolve into incoherent screams of terror that were abruptly silenced.

Just a few more souls and they would be strong enough to challenge Michael and his regime.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

This update posts a bit later than intended. My computer crashed hard and I've spent the week struggling to get it up and running again. It's still not back up to 100% functionality, but I did get Word installed. I can write again!

While my computer's been installing all the massive updates and what-not, I've been taking in all kinds of horror to pass the time. _Stranger Things_ (playing right now, in fact), _Annabelle Comes Home_ , _Witch_ , original _Twilight Zone_ reruns, and other retro nightmare fuel. It amused me when _Stranger Things_ tapped _American Horror Story_ for a bit with Sean Astin, who did a good Tate-like "Go away!". I always did like Sean Astin.

Next time: Tate and Violet find out what that mysterious noise is. Meanwhile, Fiona's taking witchcraft back to the books.


	69. E9 Chapter 5 - The Bird and the Bull

((Song suggestion: _From the Vault of the Miskatonic University_ by Graham Plowman))

The world had changed. Even from a bird's eye view, that much was apparent. The fog that had choked the landscape had thinned in many places. There were even large patches where the mist had retreated entirely. Fiona couldn't decide which was worse to see. Over the years, she had grown somewhat accustomed to the perpetual haze. Seeing the remains of the world was a new breed of unsettling.

Most of the roads were gone. Some had been torn up from underneath; others were overgrown, broken to chunks by florae gone wild. Some of the highways looked like they had been hit with napalm. One large section had turned to glass or something that passed for it from a distance. Cities she passed were similar: Many were blasted, gutted by some violent, supernatural force no longer apparent. Others were overgrown and rapidly being reclaimed by nature. One she passed was shrouded in thick, ominous webs.

New Orleans fit into the "reclaimed by nature" category. Without anyone to maintain the roads and levees, Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River had flooded the region. Much of the 9th Ward was underwater, as was the St. Bernard Parish. Kudzu had grown over large portions of the city, making it look like an ancient ruin in a jungle. The Vieux Carre was the only part of town that looked remotely like its old self. The Garden District was at once overgrown and dying: An overabundance of vegetation left unattended had led to its own demise as plants competed for resources.

Miss Robichaux's Academy was worse than the witch had feared. One side of the venerable house had collapsed to rubble, the white bricks scorched black by a vicious fire that likewise blackened the interior. The upstairs had collapsed into the sitting room, cutting off access to the kitchen. Fiona saw no bodies but she saw no sign of life, either. All of the school's relics were missing as well, from archaic books to talismans.

Much of New Orleans was the same: The only living things she saw were animals and strange creatures that had come with the fogs that were clearing. The fog's recession meant nothing to the new fauna: The overcast skies provided them enough protection from the sun that they were able to roam free. Fiona paid them little mind while flying over. They couldn't hurt her and she had no use for them.

She paused to light on a balcony rail on Bourbon Street when the clouds opened up and dumped cold rain on the old street. Ivy choked the building across the street and the green-and-white striped awning that used to shade the third floor balcony overhead had rotted through and hung in tatters that rustled with the rainfall. Soon a rush of water was flowing down the black drainpipe that hugged the side of the building she roosted on, splashing onto the cobblestones below.

The sight stirred some nostalgia in the witch. She could almost hear the distant sound of jazz, but it was just the wind dancing through the deserted alleys. For the first time in a long time, Fiona actually missed the old world. The sentimentality was short-lived, soon replaced with a dose of self-loathing for feeling such a thing. The world was better this way. No idiots clogging the roads, pissing on statues and stealing from each other. No charlatans passing themselves off as fortune tellers. No Vodoun.

Fiona's feathers ruffled up at the thought of the religion. The practitioners might be gone, but there were still Loa to contend with. One in specific came to mind: Baron Cimitiere.

She took flight and, on a whim, circled over to St. Louis #1. The old cemetery was overgrown but not flooded. The witch settled atop one of the nicer crypts and straightened a couple of pinfeathers before having a look around. She half-expected the spirit to come strolling around the corner but the only thing she saw was a pale yellow moth hovering above an algae-lined puddle on the ground.

With a clatter of wings, Fiona took to the air again. She swooped up high, then dived down to snap the moth up. The protein snack would tide her over until she could find something more substantial. It tasted of the flowers it had fed on. One of the yellow wings fell away, fluttering down to land in the puddle. She let it go. She didn't mind eating bugs but drew the line at eating off the muddy ground.

A few flaps of her wings later and she was heading west. It was time to go back to the only home she had left: New 'Salem.

...

"Why are you being such a dick?" Violet wanted to know.

"I'm not," countered Tate defensively. "I just don't get why you're doing Chad's shit for him. He can leave the house just as easily as we can."

Violet pursed her lips. His attitude was frustrating, but she really did want to help him understand. She still held to the hope that he might one day develop people skills of his own. So far, that hadn't happened. Her parents thought she was foolish for holding out hope which was also frustrating, especially coming from her dad, who thought he knew Tate better than Violet did.

"It's not about ability," she said. "It's about...it's about making concessions. He doesn't like having to come down to the market himself. If we do it for him, that'll put him in a better mood. If he's in a better mood, he's less likely to be an ass-hat about shit."

She looked at her boyfriend to see if that flipped any switches for him, but he still looked sulky.

"He's gonna be an ass-hat no matter what," said Tate. He plucked a twig from an overgrown willow tree they passed under and twirled the thin stick in his hand. "It's just part of who he is."

"Maybe," Violet sighed. "But I know he's not as big a one if he has real food in the kitchen to work with."

"He just wants the wine so he can get a buzz," Tate debated. "Phantom booze doesn't do shit but the real stuff seems to work for him."

Violet's lips twitched in a small, brief smile. She couldn't deny that was the most likely reason for the four-bottle wine order, even if he said he was going to use it for cooking. The bourbon he requested she knew was for making mint juleps, which she liked to sip with him.

"Yeah," she allowed. "But is that so bad? I mean, when he's buzzed, he's even less of an asshole."

Tate shrugged and started to casually rip the thin leaf buds off the willow stem. "I just think it's stupid he always wants us to get him stuff when we go out. And I don't need Pat giving me shit about it either. When you take their side—"

"I'm not taking sides!" Violet flared, amazed by the leap in logic he just executed. She grabbed his nearest arm and pulled it close to her, to get his attention. "I'm on your side, if I'm on any side. Just because I'm picking some stuff up for them doesn't mean I'm not."

He passed her a dose of his broody look, unconvinced. "Feels like it."

Violet felt her bubble of frustration grow a little more. She checked her first impulse and chose to employ one of her father's tactics. "Well. What would make you feel like I'm on your side?"

Tate perked up. "We can skip the market."

"Tate."

He made a face and looked down at the twig he held. "What? I don't want to go shopping. I hate shopping! I just want to see what's making that stupid noise and go home. Why can't we do that?"

"Because I already told Chad we would bring stuff back for him," she explained carefully. It was her own temper she was treading on carefully. "How about this? How about...we check out what's making the sound. Then you can go home and I'll go do the marketing."

He considered her offer. He didn't like it that much, but had to admit to himself that it was better than shopping. But he wanted Violet to go home with him. The silence stretched as he stewed over the quandary. Violet let him chew on his feelings in silence. She knew him well enough to know when he was thinking and when he was just being difficult. Right now, he was thinking. Eventually he would come around to some sort of decision.

"Maybe I could hang out in the square and wait for you while you shop?" he counter-offered. "Then we can go back home together."

"Fine," she accepted. It was the best compromise she was likely to get from him.

The agreement instantly bolstered Tate's mood. He didn't get exactly what he wanted but he was satisfied with outcome. He let the twig fall and put an arm around Violet's shoulders, his mood improving with each step forward.

—

The source of the deep, throbbing sound was readily apparent when the teens reached the village square. Seeing it didn't grant instant understanding, however. Erected in the center of the New 'Salem's commons was a huge construct made of metal siding and flattened utility barrels, shaped into the form of a giant bull. The bizarre sculpture was stationed on a raised brick platform under which acolytes from Michael's church were tending a large fire. A series of sloppily welded pipes that were fastened beneath the platform and above the fire pumped water from a container that resembled an above-ground pool. The thrumming sound was made as the water coursed through the pipes. The circulated water flowed back through return pipes, into the pool, which steamed from the heat generated by the fire.

"What the hell is it?" Violet wondered.

She found the metal creature oddly fascinating. It had a rough, post-apocalyptic quality to it that reminded her of old _Mad Max_ films she used to watch with her dad.

"It looks like that bronze bull the Greeks made," said Tate, his upper lip curling up faintly.

"What?"

Tate tore his eyes off the monstrosity and looked at Violet, surprised she didn't catch the reference. He tended to assume she knew everything he did, because she was smart like that. "You know. The brazen bull. It was a torture device."

Violet pulled a face, but she couldn't help being morbidly curious. She looked at the rusty tin construct. "What sort of torture?"

A smile tickled Tate's lips. He liked it when Violet was morbid. It was one of her best qualities, in his estimation. "When the Romans got it, they put people inside it and lit a fire under it. Cooked them alive. The insides had these acoustic pipes that supposedly converted the victims' screams to the sounds a bull makes."

"Bullshit," Violet declared, though she was no less fascinated by the idea. "No way."

"Seriously!" insisted Tate. "You can look it up if you don't believe me."

"There's no internet anymore."

"But there's a library," Tate pointed out. He tipped his head. "You want to go?"

"We should get Chad's stuff first."

Tate made a face. He had hoped she would forget about errands. "Fine. After?"

She smiled. "Sure." She rose up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "I'll meet you here when I'm done. Okay?"

He nodded and watched her head off across the square, toward the small open-air market. Then he shifted his attention back to the tin bull. Without Violet there to enjoy it with him, it wasn't nearly as cool. It was kind of hideous, in fact; it gave off an unsettling vibe. There was something about the messy painted-on red eye and the set of its gaping mouth that put him off. The whole of it spoke of a rush job. The bull he'd seen illustrations of was a scientific work of art; a terrible machine that was quite beautiful in its design. This thing was a mockery of the ancient torture device—a crude reproduction made by craftsmen who didn't give a shit about what the thing looked like.

Drawing closer to the strange statue, he tried to see if it had a door of some sort in its belly or sides, but he couldn't tell due to the way the sheets of metal were layered and wrapped. While he was studying the thing, a gray-robed acolyte came to drop more wood on the fire. The pipes thrummed louder, which sparked a rush of indignant anger in Tate. Why should the church's stupid bull be something he had to listen to even when he was in his home blocks away? Why was Michael having them make the thing anyway?

He glanced over to the blood-soaked altars that stood in front of the church. There were no sacrifices going on at the time but the evidence staining the concrete slabs suggested they were still being used regularly. From that, he drew the conclusion that the bull wasn't a likely replacement for the ritual sacrifices.

The scene made Tate remember why he hated coming to the square so much. He didn't like to shop but more than that, he didn't like seeing the evidence of Michael's control over the city. It made him feel somewhat responsible and he didn't want to be responsible for anything he was seeing. His mood darkened quickly, spurring him to action. He made himself visible and addressed the acolyte as the bald man was getting ready to leave the bonfire.

"Hey," Tate said. He threw on one of those smiles his mother liked so much. "Is Michael around?"

The man turned to him, surprise evident on his face. "Er. No. No, I don't think so."

Tate's irritation swelled, killing the fake smile. "Well, where is he?"

"I...I don't know," the man stammered. Then he frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

Tate didn't like his tone or his frown. "Because," he said. He put on another smile, this one closer to a smirk of superiority. "So. You work for his church but you don't know where he is? Guess you're not very important."

The man bristled, insulted. "Our Lord's business is his own."

"Whatever," Tate dismissed. "Who's your superior?"

The man stared at him.

"Who's your boss?" pressed Tate, smothering his growing resentment under a toothy smile. "I want to talk to somebody who actually knows shit."

"That can be arranged," the man said in a tone that intimated trouble.

He grabbed Tate's upper arm, a move that surprised the teen. He let the man do it, though, curiosity overcoming his bad mood. The acolyte used Tate's arm to steer him toward the church. He wasn't particularly gentle in herding the teen inside the chapel, but Tate didn't care much. He was more interested in what the guy thought he was doing.

The acolyte brought him all the way to the back of the chapel and through a door on the left side. The narrow corridor beyond smelled weird to Tate. It smelled of cloves and death. The cloying scent bothered him, so he looked for something funny to say about it, to make it less bothersome.

"Most people don't use dead things as air fresheners."

The acolyte didn't even spare him a glance but kept herding him forward, around the corner and down a long, tight hallway. "Most people don't have to provide sustenance to the Antichrist."

Tate didn't like that answer, or the fact that the man was so eager to provide it. "Where are we going?" he wanted to know, his tone still injected with false humor that no longer touched his expression.

The man didn't answer, and Tate liked that even less. He could easily evade the man, but he was also terribly curious about what the guy thought he was going to do. Once his curiosity was satisfied, Tate decided he would leave.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Last chapter was a bit short; this one got super long. It just didn't chop up any better than this. Next time, we'll catch up with Michael and find out what he's been doing. Also, remember those relics? The ones so many people didn't want Michael to collect? Yeah, that's coming back to haunt us.

Gonna watch _Doctor Sleep_ this weekend. Maybe it'll provide me with some fresh inspiration, being that it's the long-awaited sequel to _The Shining_. Not that I'm short on ideas. Frankly, I don't know how long I'll keep writing this fic. Every time I think I'm close to a conclusion, a whole new path opens up, just begging to be explored. I'm glad you're following it with me. Whenever you venture down dark, scary roads, it's always good to have someone with you. Safety in numbers.


	70. E9 Chapter 6 - Sine Lux

North of Los Angeles, the forest was actively reclaiming the land that man had cleared during civilization's heyday. Whole roads had been swallowed by the woods. Michael suspected it was growing faster than it naturally would, based on the extreme amount of growth that had taken over but also the density of the established forest. The canopy overhead was so thick, sunlight couldn't penetrate it. The lack of sunlight cast the deep woods into a perpetual state of twilight.

Michael loved it.

The cool air was refreshing and the musty smell of earth and decay tickled his primal senses. Being in the forest spurred the beast within. But as much as he would like to rip off his fancy clothes and go running through the woods naked and wild, he had work to do.

Nothing bothered him as he made his way through the woodlands to the tallest peak of the San Gabriel Mountains. The mountain's given name had been Mount San Antonio, but locals had referred to it as Mount Baldy. Michael chose it both because of its height and the number of deaths that had occurred on it. According to the book he read, the majority of the deaths were accidents. Several ambitious hikers met their unfortunate ends on the treacherous trail. But there were a handful of missing persons who disappeared under dubious circumstances, some never to be found.

Michael hadn't come to investigate those disappearances. He scaled the difficult climb with another mission in mind. He took the physical route up, though he was hardly dressed for the rough hike. By the time he made it to the top, his clothes were filthy and torn in more than one spot. The leather of his shiny boots was irreparably scarred. Dirty but not the least bit tired, he had a cigarette and looked out over the view the summit afforded him.

High above the forest, he could see where the fog still clung to the trees and parts of the city beyond. The sun was beginning to set, spilling crimson light across the hazy valley like a bleeding wound. Michael watched until the last of the light faded from the horizon then turned away, to find himself a place to settle and wait.

Several hours in, he began to feel his appetite stir. He had brought no sustenance and didn't intend to leave his chosen spot on account of hunger. It was a noble goal, but as the hours stretched longer and longer, his body's reaction to the denial grew to the point that it dominated his thoughts. It was part of the process, he reminded himself when his stomach growled so loudly that at first he mistook it for a wild animal behind him.

Such reassurances did nothing to soothe the craving for flesh. As darkness fell, Michael thought about calling to his Father. He didn't want to summon the celestial being, though; he wanted the creature to come to him without being asked. Michael didn't actually need anything from Him and, after the flood, was hesitant to put out a call for what amounted to personal reasons.

Waiting didn't seem to accomplish much, however, and his patience was limited. The hungrier he got, the less tolerance he had for the game. He tried to calm himself by recalling scripture, as he often did when things weren't going the way he wanted. Father Jeremiah's teachings often provided some insight, or at least a distraction from whatever was plaguing him. Remembering the trials of the Son of Man, he considered how long Christ was supposedly out in the desert waiting for a sign from his Father. Nearly a month, as Michael recalled.

That was hardly a comfort. Michael didn't have a month to wait around, hoping his Unholy Father would decide to swing by.

"I just want a sign," he grumbled out loud. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. We need supplies. We need more people, so we can start producing things on our own."

He grabbed a fallen branch, a thin thing barely grown that one of the recent storms had broken free from its parent tree. Poking at the dark soil at his feet, Michael scowled thoughtfully. Troy and Pietre had already left on a scout-and-recover mission for supplies, taking the triplets with them along with a couple of acolytes from the church to help haul things and drive. Fiona was on her own mission, surveying Texas and Louisiana for signs that the safe havens there were still around. If they were, he reckoned they should try to re-establish communications and get supply caravans moving between them, if possible. Fiona's report would enable him to make decisive action in that vein.

They should also try to reach Seattle and Boston for the same reason, but that would require more time and more people to travel that way. He didn't like having to constantly use his inner circle to do such mundane tasks. He needed another tier of followers, preferably ones that could defend themselves out in the wilds better than the average human. He needed missionaries—and shock troops. He needed more people and a way to train them.

He got so involved in his meditation that he lost track of time, despite the gnawing hunger that chewed at his insides. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there planning for the future when a motion at his feet attracted his attention. A thick-bodied snake slithered over the pointed toe of his right boot, scales gleaming in the hazy moonlight. It was a long serpent, a rare black rattlesnake that was almost invisible against the shadowed ground. The rattle on the tip of its tail was pure white, pointed slightly upward as the animal slithered its way to his other boot where it paused.

Michael regarded the snake with open interest. While he knew there were snakes on Mount Baldy, the arrival of the jet-black rattler was no coincidence. On impulse, he reached down and took hold of the ophidian, grasping it beneath the head before slipping his other hand under its cool, slick belly. The snake instinctively coiled around the arm that held its belly and its rattle buzzed as the creature tested his grip. It was strong; Michael had to think about the way he held it, in order to keep it restrained without crushing it.

He raised the serpent up to eye level and studied its angular face. It had an alien beauty to it: The glossy, black eyes and tapered snout gave it an elegant draconian appearance. The resemblance to the Dragon from his visions was undeniable. He smiled a heavy-lidded smile at the cold-blooded ambassador from Hell.

"I was wondering if you would come," he admitted, with just a touch of earnest humility. "I don't believe I thanked you properly before, for protecting us. I intend to do so...at Spring Solstice." He had no idea what he was going to do, to fulfill that intention, as he was speaking off the cuff, but he would do something grand.

The serpent poked its tongue out, tasting the air and the scent of the Antichrist.

"Ever since I saw you at the Hollywood sign," he went on. He released the snake's head and it immediately curled snugly around his wrist. "I've had dreams. I can't tell if they're prophecy or reality. I...I need more. If I'm going to reconstruct this miserable planet, I need more from you."

The snake's rattle-tail buzzed again and the animal oozed itself fully from his right arm to the left, winding its prehensile body around his forearm. The hug of it through the black silk sleeve of his shirt was strangely comforting. He ran a finger down the ridge of its spine, feeling it give slightly beneath his touch.

The creature's grip on his arm tightened briefly and, quick as lightning, the thing bit him. It sank its fangs deep into the meat of his thumb and injected a hefty dose of venom. Michael yelped in pain and jumped up in surprise. He tried to throw the rattlesnake down but it coiled tighter in a supernatural death-grip and squeezed another shot of poison into his veins. The stuff burned and Michael's temper ignited with it. He focused the full force of that hatred on the snake. It burst into white-hot flames and then powdered into nothing as it fell away from him.

Still mad, Michael examined the wound it left. The twin holes were surprisingly large. The thing's fangs had to have been massive. The edges of the punctures went from dark red to black as he was inspecting the damage.

"Shit," he swore under his breath.

He could feel the venom moving down his arm. The veins at his wrist were darkening under his skin. He grabbed his forearm, but that didn't make a very good tourniquet. His heart skipped a beat and he reached for his belt buckle, to do a proper job of it. But he didn't take off his belt. He paused, then let go of the fastener.

Just as the snake's appearance wasn't a coincidence, he was sure the bite wasn't either. It was a direct answer to his request. Either the venom would kill him, or it would give him what he asked for.

Michael wished for a moment that he hadn't incinerated the serpent, but he didn't get hung up on it. The creature was a tool—a means to an end.

He sat back down on the rock. He could feel the venom reach his heart and the searing pain it brought caused him to double over, clutching at his chest. He panted through the pain. Sweat dampened his forehead, causing the baby hairs at his hairline to stick to his skin. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten recently or he would have vomited. As it was, he hacked a few dry heaves, the force of which sent the toxins racing to his brain.

Everything hurt. Every nerve, every cell burned. Michael fell to his knees, shaking violently as the poison wracked his body. Distantly, he wished the process would just hurry up and kill him so he didn't have to feel anymore. The agony seemed to last forever, coming in waves that never fully subsided but seemed to intensify with each influx.

Then blackness, blessed blackness, finally closed in on him and shut off everything.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

The title of this chapter means 'without light' in Latin. Interestingly, it means 'self luxury' in Romanian.

Things have been a little crazy here. I've had a sick kitten I've been nursing for the past couple of weeks. If the next chapter's delayed, it's because I've been having to do a lot for him, and an unfortunate amount of cleanup. Hopefully he'll be feeling better soon, with his new medicine. The next chapter is written, by the way. It just needs editing before it's fit for publishing. I'll try not to leave you in the dark too long.


	71. E9 Chapter 7 - Soul Searching

Michael was one with the darkness. Where he ended and it began was virtually meaningless. Thoughts and memories floated through him, many of them not his own. He got the sense he could go anywhere and be with anyone that he heard in the voice-thoughts. He just had to focus on them.

He found he could easily sense the spirits inside the Montgomery Mansion. Orienting on some of the strongest, Michael saw the darkness congeal into images. He saw Mother Constance and Father Jeremiah. They were having sex even though they were supposed to be watching over the babies. Shifting his attention, he witnessed Dr. Harmon having a terse conversation with his wife. He saw other ghosts too, though not one he expected to sense there. Searching for Tate, the impression he got was that he was down at the church, of all places.

It was tempting to go look in on Tate and learn what he was doing. Like his experience with the ocean, it would be easy for Michael to lose himself to the vast darkness and the myriad of micro-stories that were all playing out at once. Passive universal omniscience was much easier than goal-chasing and hands-on steering of others to reach a point he didn't even yet know himself. But that wasn't his endgame, anymore than losing himself in the ocean had been.

What he needed to do was to harness that sense of universal oneness and bind it to his mortal form, which he suspected was laying prone on a mountaintop in the material world. He was quite possibly dead to the world, in the most literal sense. Time was of the essence and he had no clue what he was doing.

How did one harness the dark soul of reality?

As Michael tried to sort that out, he gradually became aware of another presence. This was no shadow-play or memory; it was as real as he was. And it was just as aware of him as he was of it.

It came toward him, surfacing from the darkness in Michael's second sight, tall and lean and wearing a suit as black as the darkness it came from. The tall man had a face that was all shadow and long, wispy white hair that floated around his head like it was under water. A crooked top hat was crushed down atop the skinny creature's head and its hands when it reached for Michael were thin black tentacles.

He didn't want to retreat from the thing; he wasn't afraid of it and didn't want to give it that impression. He didn't particularly want it touching him either, though, so he focused a burst of psychic force at those wriggly appendages. The creature recoiled and at the same time, pain lanced through Michael, defining his arms and hands. He reeled, confused. Had the thing attacked him?

The tall man hesitated, then reached for Michael again. He blasted it with a more forceful strike, this time aimed at its chest. He was surprised when he felt pain radiate through him, giving his midsection form. What he did to the tall man reflected on him, like it was a part of him.

Was this like the snake? Michael didn't know if he should let the thing touch him or destroy it. Frustration welled up briefly then he said to hell with it all. When the thing approached him again, he let it make contact. Only it didn't touch him exactly. He wasn't precisely physical in his present state; the creature sank into him. He absorbed it.

The act surprised him. He hadn't intended to consume the creature and yet he had. He wondered for a moment if he would feel any different, but after a bit of waiting without anything changing, he began to doubt he'd done anything at all. Perhaps it was all symbolism, though he wasn't sure what it might mean—or what it said about him.

He became aware of feeling heavy and chilly, both of which distracted him from the significance of devouring the tall man. He wanted to stay longer but, like waking from a dream, the conscious realm wouldn't let go of him once it started its pull. The whispers from the cosmos faded away and he felt his body again.

Michael woke cold and stiff, face-down on the ground. As he drew his first raspy breath in hours, a beetle that had camped in his open mouth ran for its life.

The young man made a face and sat up, licking his sleeve to get rid of any bug feces that might have been deposited in his mouth. It was just before dawn and the cloudy sky above the trees was muddy coral and violet in hue, but he was of no mind to appreciate it. He scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. They burned and felt gritty. Everything about being alive was bothersome to him at the moment, but the worst came with the first aching hunger pang.

He needed to feed—now.

—

Michael never felt quite so inhuman as he did right after a hunt. It had been a while since he'd fed off the land. Having a herd of goats tended by acolytes at the church provided him with fresh blood and meat when he needed it. He hardly even thought about the process most of the time.

Covered in the viscera of the deer he'd killed and devoured, it was impossible not to think about who and what he was. He crouched beside the bloody carcass, picking the last stringy bits of muscle from between the cracked ribs. His hunger was satisfied for the time being but nibbling those final scraps pleased him.

Distantly, he analyzed that pleasure. Most times, he didn't feel much about anything. Eating gave him pleasure, as did sex. Most other things either had no effect on him, or else they annoyed him. The present state of the world annoyed him. Despite everything he'd done, things weren't improving. He was stuck in place, trapped in a bad dream mockery of reality that only faintly resembled the life he once knew. He had a suspicion there was more he could be doing, but was no closer to an answer than he had been before his sojourn up Mount Baldy.

The cool breeze on his skin dried the blood smeared on his face, and assured him that what he was experiencing was truly real. His nice pants were dirty. His nails were caked with filth. He couldn't blame nightmares or ghosts for what he saw and felt and smelled. As bizarre and inconvenient as the world had gotten, it was the way things were.

For a brief, nostalgic moment, Michael missed sitting in front of morning television shows with a bowl of cereal. Mother Constance always made other things for Father Jeremiah but Michael always had a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles followed by a half a bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch. It was best that way because the chocolate milk coated the peanut butter balls and made them perfect. It was a routine he'd engaged in countless times before things went to hell.

He couldn't get those cereals now. Milk tasted funny these days because it came straight from cows and goats without going through various machines and containers first. Technically, he could find copies of the shows he liked as a kid if he really wanted to, but he didn't have time to waste sitting around watching reruns of shows that had only marginally amused him when he first watched them. He couldn't recreate his childhood and, even if he could, it wouldn't provide the comfort it did back then.

He looked at his hand. There was no injury per se but four white pinprick marks showed on his skin where the serpent had sunk its fangs into him. Rubbing his opposite thumb over the marks made that area of his palm tingle. Though he didn't feel different, something had happened up on the mountain.

Frustrated with his apparent lack of progress, he reached out and snapped an antler off the deer's skull. It broke close to the bone. Nearly as long as his forearm, it was spiky with branching points that had provided the beast its best defense. Getting to his feet, Michael hefted the makeshift weapon and moved deeper into the woods. He was heading home the long way, hoping that a creature more dangerous than a deer would surface to challenge him. He wanted to tangle with something that could put up a decent fight. Something he could burn some of his pent-up aggression on.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I was hoping to have this published a lot sooner, but then the Coronavirus shut down the world. I've got 3 kids and 2 kittens pent up and wanting attention every 2.5 minutes, which has made it difficult to get anything done. The good news is that the kitten who was gravely ill is doing much better. The bad news is, since he's feeling better, he's more of a handful than before. It's like he's making up for all the time he wasn't able to kitten.

Until life returns to predictable normal, updates here will be kind of erratic. My college and my kids' schools are shifting to remote learning, so I'm having to figure out how that's going to work. Even though this chapter was already plotted out months ago, it feels really relevant to the times.

Here's hoping you're safe and not in need of toilet paper in these post-apocalyptic days.


	72. E9 Chapter 8 - Into the Woods

Midway through the forest Michael's antler weapon broke while he was beating a mutated mountain lion to death. The oversized beast was only a few years old, born after the end of times and was tainted by the darkness that had claimed the earth. It had a very thick hide and Michael would have entertained the idea of capturing it to use as a guardian at the hotel, but felines of any persuasion hated him, even corrupted ones.

Animals in general didn't like him. Most monsters didn't either. They all tried to run when they encountered him. Penned or tied creatures would work themselves into a frenzy trying to free themselves. Some had killed themselves, strangled by their own tethers. Those that couldn't get away would always attack, no matter how he approached them. Only by forcing his will on them could he calm them, and that only lasted as long as he was concentrating on mentally repressing their urge to panic.

Only the blood crows tolerated him, and most of them tended to keep their distance, preferring to circle and perch above him rather than come near him. Theirs was a respectful distance, he sensed, not a fearful one. Some occasionally would perch on his shoulders and one would always come if he put out an arm. That put the crows much higher in his esteem than any other animal he had encountered, natural or un-.

They kept close to him now, drawn by the copious amount of blood he was covered in. He had spent the wee hours stalking the woods, killing anything larger than himself that he encountered. The evidence of the blood sport reeked on him. The smell was getting more pungent as the morning wore on and he decided he would head back to the hotel to shower. He was about to shift himself there when he saw a flutter of bright blood red in between the mist-shrouded trees.

He paused and saw another flash of scarlet, further away, behind a tight clutch of birch trees. He wanted to see it better but didn't feel like giving chase. Instead of walking over, he sensed the position of the trees in the area and shifted himself to a spot beyond them, where he had seen the motion.

The fog fled from him as he abruptly displaced it with his presence. He spied his quarry: A young woman wearing a long red cloak. She had the hood drawn up and her back to him and was moving away. His sudden appearance must have made some sort of sound because she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

Michael must have looked quite a horrid sight, his black clothes torn and crusted in gore, his wild blond hair snarled with leaves and more viscera. He expected her to run when she saw him, but she didn't. She turned to face him fully, lowering her hood as she did. Her long, curly black hair spilled out over her shoulders in a reckless tousle. He could see she, too, had a few leaves tangled in her locks.

"Are…you all right?" she asked him carefully, eyeing his condition.

Michael could tell many things about her with a quick glance, able to read several layers of reality at once. He could sense she was a powerful creature, not human or alive like he was used to experiencing. She wasn't a dead thing either. She was a thing of substance but not body, something that had never known mortal life. She was hungry and excited yet restrained. It was a little odd to know so much about her without having to consciously look at her energy signature or other planes, but very helpful.

"It isn't safe to wander the woods alone, Little Red Riding Hood," he remarked. "You might run into a wolf."

"So, who's afraid of the big bad wolf?" she volleyed gamely, a smile playing on her lips.

Michael could taste the challenge in those words. Could she sense him the way he could sense her? He doubted it, but the notion made him want to test her. Shifting through the short space between them, he grabbed hold of her wrists and roughly shoved her up against a nearby tree. Surprised, she tried to twist free, but he transferred her wrists to one of his hands in a practiced move and grabbed her by the throat. His grip was firm but didn't jeopardize her airflow, in case she needed it.

"Scared yet, little pig?"

She resisted him but she was no match for him physically; he overpowered her without even exerting himself. He could smell her frustration. She ceased struggling and met his eyes. She gave him a dry smile.

"Hardly," she said.

She disappeared then and he was left holding nothing but a thin silver mist that dissipated quickly in the fog. Then he heard her voice several yards away, raised to reach him.

"You'll have do better than that, Mr. Wolf."

He scanned the area where her voice had come from, but she was already gone. But she had left something behind. Going over to the spot where she'd called from, Michael saw something that looked like old copper in the undergrowth. He stooped to pluck it up and discovered it was an old-fashioned key.

The antique brass key was attached to a brown diamond-shaped plastic tag with the room number 18 stamped into it in faded black ink. Above the number, in smaller print, were the words: "ELYSIUM BOARDING HOUSE".

Michael straightened, turning the thing over in his hand as he studied it. There was no further information on it. He would have to tap his personal network to learn where it came from. He wanted to find her again. He had never met another individual who could move like he did. He suspected she was meant to round out his court, and while it was inconveniencing that she wanted to play hard-to-get, he was in the mood to give chase.

* * *

Author's Note:

I finally figured out a schedule that allows me to get some writing done despite having a full house. It's nice to have that nailed down. I need to have predictable time to write in. The muse doesn't always strike right then, but I know I'll have an opportunity to get stuff written later if I have a brainstorm.

This chapter's title was drawn from the play and film of the same name. When I read it back during editing, the bloody faerie tale vibe made it a fitting choice. It's not technically horror but it IS a dark story. Several of them, really. The play is the darker, with a downright depressing series of events. The recent reboot film strips out the most shocking and depressing elements but is still a pretty OMG tale, especially when you look at the underlying messages. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend both versions, and both the original and more recent films.

Next chapter, we're catching back up with Violet. Gotta find out what happened with Tate in the market square.


	73. E9 Chapter 9 - Highway to Hell

"What do you mean, he didn't come home yesterday?" Chad said, impatiently scraping his breakfast plate into the trashcan. "Where else would he go?"

"Beats me," Violet admitted. "I'm worried. It's not like him."

Chad slowed in his cleaning. He hated to agree, but she was right. Nobody was a homebody like Tate Langdon. "Did you ask Constance?" He hated even saying her name, but he needed to know how much to rely on Violet's assessment of the situation.

The girl bobbed a nod that made her straight brown hair slip forward over her left shoulder. "She hasn't seen him. I didn't tell her he's been gone since yesterday. She had her hands full with the twins."

The babies had been a trial for everyone in the house. When one wasn't crying, the other was. Their wails were piercing, even in the spirit world. There was no tuning them out and there seemed to be no soothing them either. Not for long, anyway. It was as though living itself upset them. Violet tended to avoid them herself because of their unpleasantness, a character flaw of hers that she tried not to dwell on. They were technically her relatives in the same way that Michael was technically her half-brother. And, as with him, she felt no kinship whatsoever to them.

She accepted the fact that her rejection and neglect contributed to her being a bad person, but she had come to accept the fact that she was part of the darkness a long time ago. And it wasn't like the babies were normal babies. They were the spawn of evil themselves, which many faiths would say meant they should be killed before they could rise to power. But Violet couldn't bring herself to seriously entertain thoughts of harming them. She wouldn't assist them, but she wasn't going to hurt them either. Which also made her a bad person: According to many religions, letting them survive was a tremendous sin.

Either way, she was damned. So why not do things her way?

"You said you were at the market?" Chad prompted.

"Yeah. I went to go get the stuff you wanted. Tate didn't want to shop, so he was going to wait for me in the square. There was this…this thing there. Like…a life-sized sculpture of a cow. It looked like it was made of oil drums and spare parts. Shit like that. Acolytes from the church had a fire going under it. That's what's been making those weird thumping sounds at night and in the morning, by the way."

"Huh," Chad responded. He was thinking. While he thought, he finished cleaning up the kitchen.

"When I got done at the market," Violet went on. "I went back for him, but he wasn't there. I waited for a while, but he never came back. I thought maybe he changed his mind and came home, only he wasn't here when I got back. Not that I could find. I thought for sure he was just fucking with me. You know? Playing one of his games. But this isn't like him."

"He's not one for spontaneous sleepovers," agreed Chad with a grimace. "You don't suppose those asshole kids from the high school..?"

Violet made a face. "I kinda hoped they moved on when the fog settled. I mean. We haven't seen any of them since Chloe left."

"If any of them did turn up and cause problems for him," Chad said. "Where do you think they might take him?"

Violet lit a cigarette, earning a disapproving look from the man which she ignored. "Fuck, I don't know. The school's gone. They bulldozed the wreckage and turned it into a parking garage. Maybe…maybe the beach? It's been super creepy lately though."

"All right," said Chad in a decisive manner. "I'm going to let Patrick know what's going on. You might want to tell your Daddy Dear, in case he's seen Tate. Though God knows why they still want to play 'therapy'." He rolled his eyes then forced himself to focus on the task at hand. "Let's meet back here and go check out the beach."

Violet tuned out the editorials. "You want to go to the beach with me?"

"Is there any other place you can think of where Tate might be?" Chad arched a brow.

She thought about it then shook her head. "Not really."

"Then, we're going to the beach."

...

((Song to play: _Walking on the Sun – Smashmouth_ ))

White Sands, New Mexico was exactly as described: White sand. For miles in every direction Troy looked there was nothing but blinding bleach-white hills. The sky above was deep sea blue, cloudless and cold. The clashing contrast of colors made the dark-haired young man wish he had some sunglasses. Fat chance scoring a pair all the way out here.

He drove the lead van in a 2-vehicle convoy. Pietre and the triplets rode with him while Barry and Dean from the village drove the box truck. The two men weren't much alike except that they were both good physical labor and both had reasons for owing their loyalty to Michael. Both also respected the chain of command and had a healthy fear of Pietre. They turned a blind eye to the perversities that went on at night between the coven members. They were both excellent roadies for the cause.

—

Troy killed the engine of the van and peered through the dusty windshield at the low, blockish building. It was painted the same eye-piercing white as the desert around.

"Doesn't look like much," he remarked.

Pietre smiled. "Neither do you."

The warlock slid out of the passenger's seat, leaving the door open behind him. Troy rolled his eyes, but he recognized the compliment seeded in the backhanded statement and nursed it proudly. He got out as well, followed soon by the triplets, one of whom shut Pietre's door for him.

The warlock stood out against the stark white backdrop in his solid black attire. The hard sand crunched under his bare feet. He paid no mind to the rough terrain, unfazed by it. The wind teased his blond ponytail.

"What is it you're looking for exactly?" Troy prompted as he lit a cigarette. He'd gotten hooked on the spicy black things.

"A way in."

The only apparent entrance to the small building was a lone steel door. It had no handle, no visible locking mechanism. Pietre stepped up to it and put a hand on the door in a gesture that was almost tender.

Troy considered questioning him further but suspected he would only get more of the same evasive banter. He glanced back at the triplets. Tisi was scanning the nearby area, keeping alert. Meg hugged herself against the chill air. Pietre still hadn't let her have more than a thin sleeveless nightgown to wear and while the girl had exceptional resilience, it was cold out. It wouldn't do any good for Troy to offer her his jacket though. Pietre wouldn't let her keep it, and he didn't want to butt heads with the man over a futile cause. So, he pretended not to notice her shivering and smoked his cigarette. Their brother Alec was avoiding his gaze still and had been for the past couple of days. Ever since the night in Yuma.

—

((Music switch: Search for _Nine Inch Nails "_ The Downward Spiral (Expanded) [Disc 1]" on YouTube))

They had holed up at an abandoned motor lodge for the night. A powerful thunderstorm was rolling in. Nightfall brought the monsters with it, but things were always at their worst during storms. It was like the energy of the weather drew them. It was as if they, too, were unsettled by the unnatural shifts in the atmosphere during the squalls.

Whatever the reason for the more violent and persistent wildlife during night storms, the group had agreed to make camp at the old motel. Dean and Barry each got a room for himself. Pietre kept the triplets with him, as he tended to do wherever they went.

Troy technically had his own room, but it was Pietre's bed he ended up in that night. Meg was stationed naked on her knees with her nose in the corner next to the door. She was still being punished for the part she played in the loss of the succubus and the zombie boy. She and Madison both were under similar punitive measures. Madison was still chained up back at the hotel in Los Angeles. Pietre had need of Meg's abilities on the trip but that didn't change his intention to punish her.

Though underweight, she had a nice body. Her nudity kept drawing Troy's eyes that first night out on the road. The way she was positioned accentuated her hips and waist nicely. Her hair was short cropped, so there was nothing left to the imagination.

"Do you want to fuck her?" asked Pietre quite bluntly.

Troy didn't know how to answer that. He had been with both girls by that point, but they had never discussed it before it happened. "Uh. I…"

His floundering made the blond warlock smile. His eyes were mischievous in the flickering light cast by the baker's dozen of candles they'd lit around the room. He had propped himself against the headboard with most of the pillows that were in the room. Dressed only in a pair of black silk boxers, he stroked his own stomach lightly, just above the waistband of his underwear.

"Don't be coy," Pietre encouraged playfully. "It's an easy question. Do you want to fuck her?"

Troy glanced over at Meg, expecting to see her fidgeting or blushing, but there was no outward sign that she even heard them. There wasn't time to wrestle with morals.

"Right now?"

Pietre laughed. "Oh, my dear boy. You're still so very pure." His mirth subsided and he settled a darkly smoldering look on the younger man. "Come here."

The sex that followed was aggressive and loud, impossible to ignore for those in the same room with them. It was a fairly typical evening, really, until Alec decided he wanted to go out to take a piss. He mumbled something to that effect as he headed for the door.

"No," Pietre said. He had his cock buried in Troy and didn't stop fucking him, though he did slow his pace. "Why don't you stay?"

Alec had his hand on the doorknob, but he pulled it away quickly when he felt it heat up. "I was just going—"

"I know what you're doing, Alec," Pietre chided. He was looking down at Troy again, who couldn't hide his social discomfort while in missionary. "Go back to your bed."

The young man did as he was told, frowning. "I need to pee."

"Why don't you play with yourself instead."

Like before, Pietre's words weren't really a request. Alec's pale skin pinked and it was obvious he didn't want to comply but…he did. Troy's grip on Pietre's shoulders tightened as the man thrust deeper. He tried to tune out the strange vibe in the room by focusing on that sensation. It was difficult, though; Pietre's dark eyes were boring into his, devouring his discomfort eagerly.

Harder and harder they fucked and, over on the other bed, Alec jerked off. Before things could reach a crescendo, Pietre slowed again, though he didn't stop entirely.

"Tisi," he said. He was staring fixedly into Troy's eyes. "Fuck your brother."

The young woman had been reading a magazine in a chair near the television, but she set it aside. "We didn't bring the bag."

"So, make do, my dear," Pietre laughed. He was enjoying the dazed confusion on Troy's face.

Tisi thought for a moment, then disappeared into the bathroom only to emerge seconds later with a shampoo bottle. The contents served as lube. Troy didn't want to watch, and he didn't mean to stare. He did both, though, as Tisi fucked her brother with the shampoo bottle. Pietre made it all the easier for him to spectate by keeping the pace he was setting slow, deep and steady. It wasn't until Alec was audibly on the verge of orgasm that the warlock ramped things up again. The young men climaxed at almost the same time.

—

Alec hadn't been able to make eye contact with Troy since that night.

Troy was caught somewhere between pity and derision toward the triplet. He pitied the man's shame over something that was essentially not his fault. Pietre was a dominating force from Hell. Literally. Alec could serve his wishes, or he could suffer a worse fate at the same hands. Troy understood the position. He was in somewhat of a similar place himself. He could go along with Pietre's perversions or he could fight him over it.

Troy suspected that he would eventually understand his own powers well enough to defend himself, but he wasn't in a hurry. Unlike Alec, Troy had not only accepted the situation, he found dark repletion in the sick things the warlock desired, from himself and others.

There was a deep metallic clunk somewhere within the bunker and Pietre pulled away from the thick metal door with a self-satisfied smile. "Open sesame."

* * *

Author's Note:

I got ready to post this tonight and was surprised to realize that I'm on chapter 9 of this episode. I must've broke things up badly because I still have at least 2 more chapters to share. This will just have to be a weirdly unbalanced episode. This chapter got a bit long too. I couldn't break it up any less awkwardly. And it's admittedly pretty raw. Not the action (though that was too) but the state of it. I've had less time to write with the quarantine keeping my house full of family all the time. I know I should spend time editing, but I'd rather get more new stuff written in the limited time I have. I'll edit at some later point. The best reason there is to re-read this series once it's ended.

This chapter was influenced by _Damnation Alley_ and my own trips to White Sands, NM. The mighty band AC/DC contributed the title. We'll find out what Pietre's after next time. Also, Michael's had some time to reflect on his ethereal experience and wants to do something about it.


	74. E9 Chapter 10 - Meltdown

The door gave a hiss as the airlock disengaged. After a delay, the dark metal door slid aside with a screech of old parts in sore need of oiling. The silence that followed was almost as deafening, and just as brief. With a clatter of snapping wing feathers, a flock of blackbirds swooped down, cawing as they settled on the roof of the bunker and the scraggly desert shrubs that clung to its shadows.

The warlock and the triplets paid the large birds no mind, but Troy still found them unnerving. For the most part, they seemed like typical ravens. But then there were times when he'd make eye contact with one and it was like there was something…else there looking back at him, something sinister and calculating. Something he didn't trust one bit.

He didn't believe it was Michael's doing, either. When the Antichrist was using the birds as his personal conduit, they behaved in a very specific manner that Troy had come to identify even if the creatures were at ease. When the "other" was there, the creatures seemed far more predacious. Troy didn't like it because he didn't know what it was. It could be any number of demons or spirits spying on him. Waiting for a moment when he was vulnerable to…what? Attack? He wasn't sure, which was even more reason to mistrust the black birds.

He hadn't told anyone of his concerns yet because he didn't want to sound paranoid. After all, the birds hadn't actually done anything they shouldn't. Not yet. His suspicions were based solely off impressions only he seemed to have, which made him hesitant to bring it up. It was possible he was imagining things. It was even more possible that the creatures were just infernal and disturbing by nature, and only became tolerable when under Michael's direct influence. Self-doubt kept him mute where the birds were concerned. If there was something wrong with them, surely Michael would know it.

Still, Troy kept a watchful eye on the flock until he was inside. He was concerned that some might try to accompany the group, but the birds all remained outside. It was a relief and a source of security as it meant Michael likely sent them along to act as lookouts for the convoy.

The entryway beyond the old airlock was a short concrete hall that quickly became a flight of stairs that descended down into darkness. The only light came from the doorway behind them.

"You still haven't said what you're looking for," Troy mentioned.

Pietre sighed. "Don't be tedious. We're looking for supplies."

He waved Alec ahead. The pale man turned on the Coleman lantern and lit the way down the narrow stairwell.

"Here," Troy pressed. It wasn't a question.

The older man stopped on the stairs and half-turned to sweep Troy with a head-to-toe look. "This isn't the time for a history lesson about Alamogordo's bunkers and launch complexes. Put a pin in that for later, hm? Right now, we have a few things to find."

"Like..?"

The stairwell emptied out into a wider corridor lined with doors, many of which stood open. Despite the state above, the halogen lights below were working, though one at the end of the hall flickered in a way that warned it wouldn't last much longer. The air was cool and slightly musty.

"I already told you," Pietre responded. His characteristically quiet voice echoed down the deserted hall in a strange way. "Supplies."

Troy was tired of the game. "You wouldn't have dragged us all the way out to this specific place just for some K-rations and double-A batteries."

When Pietre looked back at him then, there was a hint of mischief in his obsidian eyes. To the younger man's annoyance, the warlock didn't respond. He just headed on down the hall, barely glancing at the rooms they passed. His destination was the large grey steel door at the end of the hall.

The door swung open before they reached it, maneuvered by Pietre from afar with a cantrip. A rush of cold, stale air followed.

"Nasty," Troy winced, waving a hand before his face.

"Shit!" Dean yelped and scrambled back a few paces, a look of horror on his pock-marked face.

The thing that inspired the reaction was on the floor, crawling out of the newly opened room: A small, translucent scorpion. Barry stared at him.

"It's just a little scorpion," he chided his fellow roadie.

"Are you nuts?" exclaimed Dean, not looking away from the ambling arachnid. "The little ones are the worst ones!"

"And God said: Let us make man in our image, after our likeness, and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth," Pietre quoted the Old Testament.

Barry crushed the little scorpion under his boot heel. "Problem solved."

Two more of the skittering, sting-tailed creatures darted out of the room, followed by three more.

"Ohhh, no," Dean said, backing up and trying without success to keep his eyes on all five as they fled for freedom. "No. Fuck this."

He turned and started back down the hall at a quick jog.

"Dean! Where ya going? Get your chicken-shit ass back here!" Barry called.

"Fuck that!" Dean called back, not slowing. "I didn't sign up for scorpions!"

Barry started to go after him, but Pietre put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Let him go. This is no place for cowards."

The roadie shifted his attention to the warlock. "Right."

"Let's press on. But first…"

Pietre moved to the doorway and focused, chin tucked down in concentration. There was a crackling sound and a strong smell of ozone then lightning burst from his hands. It lit up the wide room beyond, chasing across the floor and up the walls to race across the ceiling. Anything living in contact with the surfaces perished painfully.

Once he was sure everything in the room was dead, Pietre cut the flow of electricity. Lightheaded, he brushed a hand under his nose to make sure he wasn't bleeding. Then he sent a self-satisfied smile around his reduced group. "Troy? Can you give us some light?"

…

"So, you really think this is where it is?" Michael asked, looking with great interest at the military map Pietre had brought back from New Mexico. The old document had been rolled up for so long, the stiff paper resisted being pulled apart, wanting to curl back up on itself.

"I have no doubt it is there," Pietre smiled confidently.

"Then," said Michael with a light note of an easy decision made. "As soon as you're rested and ready, we'll go."

"I'm ready now," the warlock said. "The younglings could probably use a night's rest, but it isn't absolutely necessary."

"We'll go in the morning," decided Michael.

The map he studied was an aerial view of a location he had never been to but knew he could shift himself to all the same. He could see it in his mind already, just a concentrated thought away.

The forested land surrounding the town was rich green. In the middle, the ground turned brown and blighted, devoid of living trees. Sun-bleached buildings poked up from the dead earth like tombstones. The streets between them were half-reclaimed by nature, coming together in an A-shaped intersection that led inevitably to a series of low, ashen buildings.

These buildings were anything but white. Blackened and warped, decaying in the elements, these were what remained of Pripyat's Chernobyl power plant. The meltdown in 1986 left the area irradiated and uninhabitable by anyone who valued a long, healthy life. In the early 2000s, the Ukrainian government tried to construct a new container for the crippled plant to contain the nuclear mess that was still festering there. Efforts ceased in 2020, when the fog thickened and brought the monsters with it.

It was there, beneath a crumbling half-finished concrete dome, that the Rod of Wormwood could be found.

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

That does it for this episode. Roll credits, end theme, etc.

Now, if you've watched the show, you know they tapped the nuclear vibe for _Apocalypse._ We're dipping into it as well, but not as an homage to the parent series so much as it's what follows logically in the Bible. Check it out: The power plant in Pripyat was called Chernobyl. The word itself means "wormwood". The Bible has an interesting remark about Wormwood in Revelation, which is partly the inspiration for this fanfic. I'm not giving any more spoilers, but if you want to know the Bible's take on Wormwood, you can find the info online.

Next episode is called " **The Fallen** ". It's a multipurpose title.


	75. E10 Chapter 1 - The Fallen

His was a dusky beauty that captivated Lilith as she gazed on his bare form stretched out beside her, freshly spent from the carnal bout of sex they'd just engaged in. His skin was mother-of-pearl, his hair long and black as the night. His body was strong but not overtly muscular. A pleasant blend of masculine and feminine traits that reflected her own androgynous leanings. His appearance was marred only by the vicious scars that scored his back; ten wounds healed long ago.

"Marry me."

At first, Lilith thought he was joking, but when she looked into those fathomless indigo eyes of his, she knew he meant what he said. It was a look that lanced her heart.

"He would never allow it," she demurred.

"Let me take care of that," he assured her. "I want you for my wife. Now and forever."

She wanted to debate him further on the matter, but he was crawling on her again, penetrating her. The connection with him was so dominating in its ecstasy, she could think of nothing else. How could she deny him anything?

They didn't speak of marriage again that night. The next time she saw him, he was reluctant to let her see his naked body. When she finally was able to part him from his clothing, she understood why. His attempt to barter for her hand in marriage had been successful, but permission had come at a terrible price.

"He didn't want us filling the world with our children," he told her bitterly.

There would be no chance of that. In exchange for the right to wed his beloved, their master had castrated him. Worse than mere sterility, his mutilation prevented his getting an erection. And though they went through with the wedding, they could not consummate their union.

So, Lilith came to a decision of her own: She sought out the White Serpent.

To set the tone for their meeting, she put on a silk dress that shimmered every hue of the rainbow when she moved. She braided her hair with wheatgrass and poppies and made herself desirable for Damballa. A compassionate king, he gave her what she wanted. But the Serpent wanted something of his own: Her hand in marriage. It didn't bother him that she was set to marry another. He even blessed the future wedding. He wanted to share her, however, and would settle for nothing less.

It was hardly a sacrifice; she had loved the White Serpent for a long time. She would have some explaining to do but what Damballa gave her to take back to her first husband already required an explanation.

—

"It is the Blind Dragon," she told him later when she presented it to him.

Carved to resemble the head of a great serpent, the ivory phallus was rigged on a set of belts that she helped him put on, and as she did, she explained the sacrifice she had made for their future. He accepted her words. He wasn't prone to jealousy and felt no ownership over her. Their marriage was the completion of a partnership that simply couldn't be jeopardized, no matter how many husbands she took.

When the Blind Dragon was secured in place, Lilith was duly impressed. Her lover been androgynous before; the device only made him more amazing to behold. The way the leather straps hugged his thighs reminded her of armor and bondage simultaneously, which she found incredibly arousing.

"After you've had a go," she smiled wickedly as they fell back into the sheets together. "I want to use it on you."

And that's exactly what they did.

—

Sex between them with the help of the Blind Dragon was enjoyable, but nowhere close to the fiery encounters they'd shared before their marriage. Neither could achieve orgasm. What had once bonded them became a source of slow-burning frustration that gnawed at them both. Unrequited desire eventually drove her to other lovers. She would always return to him, but not before finding a suitable male to impregnate her. In the meantime, he kept himself occupied with his work.

It had been decades since she found a viable partner. Even before the apocalypse, she'd had trouble finding a man who looked good and didn't disgust her on an interpersonal level. Intelligence, beauty, _and_ ambition were a combination in short supply in the modern age. She tore through several in her search for a partner who could satisfy her lust.

Now that the world had ended, she had finally found a worthy subject for her carnal needs. She had left him a key when she encountered him in the woods; he only had to use it. Time moved differently for her within the old Hollywood mansion she had turned into her supernatural bordello. She was content to wait, amusing herself in her dark glamorous paradise. The petty dramas of the ghosts she had trapped there entertained her, as did feeding stray children to her pet. Eventually, Michael would find his way to her. And when she'd taken what she wanted from the Antichrist she would return to her beloved husband Samael.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

Violet didn't bother with the door when she entered the Bradford Hotel. There were people in the lobby, members of the coven of witches, and she didn't want to bother interacting with them. It was a social leisure she wished she'd had in life. If she'd been able to become invisible anytime she wanted, school wouldn't have bothered her nearly as much. She might've even achieved "A" student status under such conditions.

The fact was, she had nothing against learning. She had taken in plenty of media over the years that fascinated her as it educated her. She loved to study things with Tate, especially morbid things. Only he truly understood and shared her interest in things like gravestones and catastrophic plagues.

He was the reason she was at the witch-owned hotel.

After her venture to the beach with Chad had turned up nothing helpful, Violet decided to go to the only person she was certain could find Tate, regardless of what had happened to him. Michael could find him, she was sure. She did feel strange about approaching him, though. She wasn't a religious person but asking the Antichrist for anything grated against the general belief system instilled in her by the culture she'd been raised in. Only sinners asked the Devil's son for help.

Which is what she was, she knew. She had killed herself. That alone was enough by the standards of most religions to damn her for eternity. She knew she had done worse than that too. But even knowing and accepting the darkness that she was, she still felt odd about asking the living Prince of Evil for assistance.

She found him in his suites, but he wasn't alone. Jeremiah was there with him and they were engaged in serious discussion. She had already passed through the door when she realized they were busy and she retreated with the intent of letting them alone, but the nature of the discussion caught her interest.

"—I just question the wisdom of your traveling into a nuclear wasteland based solely on some old documents Pietre pulled from an abandoned bunker in the New Mexico desert," Jeremiah was saying.

Michael had a suitcase out on the bed and was giving the contents of his closet careful scrutiny. Most of what it contained was black, with smatterings of red and white. "Some question the wisdom of my leaving you and Mother Constance to raise my sons while I tend to the rebirth of the world."

Jeremiah blinked rapidly and his lips thinned. "I...don't see what that has to do with the subject at hand," he said carefully.

Michael selected a white ascot and ran his fingers over the delicate aged lace. "Thank you for your advice, Jeremiah," he said without looking at the man. "But I intend to go to Pripyat as soon as Troy is rested and ready to go."

Recognizing he was being shut down, Jeremiah's posture wilted slightly. "The warlock and his brood aren't going with you?"

A faint smile teased Michael's lips at his former mentor's resignation. "No. Desiree is close to delivering and Pietre wants to be there for the birth."

"As does Fiona."

Michael's smile grew. "So I heard."

"That doesn't concern you?"

"Why should it?" Michael asked, his smile disappearing in favor of wide-eyed innocence of the most false kind. "They both want the baby. They'll either sort out between them who gets it, or they'll carve it in two to share. Whatever they do with it doesn't matter to me."

Jeremiah's frown had less to do with the morality of the younger man's position and more to do with the sensibility of it. "We don't even know what sired the child," he pointed out. "Don't you think you should know what the baby is before you let them take it?"

"I don't _care_ what it is," Michael stressed, suddenly tired of the conversation. He tossed the ascot into his suitcase and grabbed a pants hanger which he swept the contents of into the case as well. "It's probably some sort of squid monster or something. I don't fucking care what it is or what happens to it." He turned to Jeremiah then and his eyes were alight with barely contained excitement. "If what Pietre says is true, we've found the Rod of Wormwood. Once I have it, that only leaves the Chalice of the Leviathan and Belial's Shroud. When I have those—"

"You have the world," Jeremiah finished wearily, repeating what Michael himself had said so many times. "But you already have the world, Michael. Don't you see? New Jerusalem _is_ the world."

"It's not all that's left," debated Michael. He went back to packing. "There are still people beyond the walls in the world, hiding in the mountains and underground. Traveling in packs like wild dogs. They're out there. And they're either lost or they're my enemies. There are dissenters here in New 'Salem who would love to see me destroyed, too. Don't act like you don't know."

Jeremiah couldn't argue that so he didn't try. "I just wish you would take more time with this decision."

"You say that but there isn't anything to decide!" Michael exclaimed, exasperated again. "The rod is there. I am going to get it."

The older man could see the futility in trying to push past the stalemate and sighed. "If you have time, you should stop by and say goodbye to Constance."

Michael didn't respond so Jeremiah let himself out in silence.

The Antichrist plucked a shirt from the closet and folded it sloppily, mild irritation punctuating the moves. "What do you want?"

Violet was surprised when he shot a mild glare her way. "Uh. Me?"

"Yes, you," he said. "You've been lurking about this whole time. I'm guessing you have a reason for being here other than spying on my conversations."

She hadn't made herself visible to anyone so she knew then that he could see her whether she wanted him to or not. "I...It's Tate." May as well get directly to the point. "He's missing."

Michael paused in his packing to give her a better look. "What do you mean?"

Violet fidgeted. His direct attention was uncomfortable; she felt like he was somehow looking inside her. Which wasn't incorrect. "He disappeared the other day when we were in the market. He was hanging around that gross bull in the center."

"Disappeared?" Michael repeated, not following. "He's a ghost. He disappears when he wants to. Especially after a fight."

"We didn't fight," she protested. "He was waiting for me. I was grabbing some shit for Chad. When I got done, Tate was gone. That was yesterday morning. He hasn't been back at the house since. I'm sure of it."

"So, what do you want me to do about it?" He figured she hadn't come to him just to give him an update.

Violet frowned. She'd assumed he would volunteer a solution. "I want you to find him."

"I'm busy," he said dismissively and went back to picking out clothes. "You heard what I said to Jeremiah: I'm going to Pripyat."

"But—" Violet faltered. Then she got mad. She bit down on the frustration and forced herself to phrase her next words carefully. "Please. Just...could you look for him? I know you can do that. Can you please just do that?"

"Why?" Michael demanded. After the previous conversation, he wasn't feeling terribly generous. "You're the one who wants to know where he is. You find him."

"I've tried," she insisted, desperation nudging her to close the distance between them. She looked up at him imploringly. "You're literally are my last hope. I wouldn't come to you if I hadn't tried everything else first."

"Way to make a guy feel wanted," he sulked. He was only half-joking.

Violet couldn't help seeing just a bit of Tate in Michael at that moment. So, she handled him like she would Tate. "I know you're a busy guy," she explained. "I didn't want to bother you until I'd done everything I could to handle it myself. But seriously, Michael? You're the only person who can do this. I need your help. Will you please help me?"

He plucked at the collar of the silk shirt in his hands, considering her appeal and the situation. When he gave the matter serious thought, he found it did bother him that Tate was missing, if only because the ghost was part of what he considered his estate and belongings. If something had happened to him, Michael did want to know what it was. It could mean someone was trying to stage a coup against him.

"Fine," he relented. He could sense her relief. "But I want something from you."

Violet's relief faded into uncertain suspicion. There it was: The reason she'd been apprehensive asking him for anything. Making a deal with the devil always came with a price tag. "What?"

Michael gave her a sunny smile. "I don't know yet."

Violet folded her arms. An open-ended IOU was even worse than anything she'd conjectured. She fished wildly for something that might keep the situation a little more balanced. "If I have to owe you a solid, you have to call it before the new year."

Michael tipped his head curiously. His dark eyes were unreadable. "I don't think you're in a position to dictate terms to me."

She sucked her lower lip briefly. "You're right," she relented with a tight smile. "So. You'll do it? You'll find him?"

Satisfied at her backpedaling, Michael's smile bloomed again. "Of course."

* * *

Author's Note:

We've finally made it. We're at the end. Episode 10 will be the last in this Season. I'm not sure how many chapters it will have, but they should be pretty epic. It is the end of the world, after all. Or is it the beginning?

The first portion of this chapter was inspired by the combined beliefs of at least 8 different religions. I find it fascinating how many religions, new and ancient alike, share the same basic ideas.

Next time, we should find out what's going on with Tate. Later we'll tag along with Michael to check out Chernobyl.

I have to wonder: Are you rooting for Michael? Or against him?


End file.
